


A Hard World for Little Things

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), BDSM Malpractice, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Caregiver Crowley, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discipline, F/M, Little Aziraphale, M/M, Pet Names, Repression, Safeword Use, Spanking, but you'd never been a child?, it's like what if you were a little, littlespace, okay there's a little bit of age play stuff but not really guys, they're gonna put this in the age play tag but it's not really age play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: When the Almighty Lord created the universe and decided that desire would exist within it, They hadn’t exactly said: “This shall go on top, and this on bottom.” But there was an ordering of things and a hierarchy of desire. That’s how it was explained to Aziraphale.All of us serve,he had been taught,and some of us are happy to serve a little more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens) briefly, Aziraphale/Others
Comments: 57
Kudos: 251





	A Hard World for Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from _The Night of the Hunter_ , making this my second fic to reference the 1955 classic thriller in its title. But they also say it in _Raising Arizona_ , so who's to say what inspired me more. 
> 
> is this entire fic based off that one time i was listening to daddy dom audio porn and getting into it and then he called me a naughty bad girl and i started crying in a very unsexy way and had to stop? maybe so.
> 
> shoutout [pinafortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinafortuna) and [hanggracefully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanggracefully) for reading over this and making sure i didn't totally embarrass myself. also thanks pinafortuna for the poetry ideas and additional cheerleading!

When the Almighty Lord created the universe and decided that desire would exist within it, They hadn’t exactly said: “This shall go on top, and this on bottom.” But there was an ordering of things and a hierarchy of desire. That’s how it was explained to Aziraphale. _All of us serve,_ he had been taught, _and some of us are happy to serve a little more._ But in those early days, nothing was too structured and Aziraphale mostly stayed away from all of that, more interested in creating a bird or two when they let him and keeping his head down. 

Sometime between the first war and Aziraphale being sent to what would become his home, he mingled with Gabriel. It wasn’t that he hadn’t mingled before, or even that he hadn’t mingled with Gabriel. But it was the first time Gabriel had successfully talked him into doing things the way he preferred them. 

“You don’t have to,” Gabriel said with a smile and a shrug of his form. “I have other people I can mingle with if it scares you.” Gabriel was one of the slickest and most controlling partners he’d ever had. “It won’t be that different from how it usually is,” he said, and Aziraphale figured that might be true. When they were together, Gabriel liked to press Aziraphale’s chest against the ground and not let him up until they were done. He liked to eat him until he was crying and squirming away. For all of his domineering, though, he was precise and thorough and always accomplished what he set out to do. That immense skill and efficiency was what convinced Aziraphale. 

It was the wrong choice, in that Aziraphale didn’t like it and Gabriel never looked at him the same way afterwards. But it was a good learning experience, and Aziraphale was always grateful to be afforded greater understanding. He now knew that he was not a creature of deeper service, that such play upset him. Now he could easily avoid it.

* * *

(He met Crawly only days after—unsure if giving the sword away confirmed or denied his relationship with service, even more unsure if he had just committed a great atrocity. Crawly had made him feel better. A little, at least. Until thunder had announced itself as a new force, and Aziraphale had sheltered Crawly under his wing. 

Would his new associate misinterpret that as service? Was it an act of service? And did Crawly prefer to serve or be served? It had to be the latter; he was a demon after all. 

But Crawly had taken it simply: as a gesture of companionship. The overwhelming relief Aziraphale felt was intoxicating, and he barely felt the rain over his own base happiness.)

* * *

The humans had probably been performing designation tests for a thousand years before it was brought to Aziraphale’s attention. 

“Ah, yes,” Florian, one of the senators he was dining with, said, “I just had mine done.” He grinned as Aziraphale raised his eyebrows with polite, restrained interest. 

“Oh?” 

“Oh, yes. I always thought it was a bunch of rubbish, but it turned out to be fairly enlightening. Of course,” he said with a lofty gesture, “My designation’s consort. But,” he added, leaning in and lowering his voice, “My young Assyrian over there,” he nodded at the oiled, strong lad filling some old man’s cup. He caught them looking, and he winked. “Ashur. I had him tested too. He’s a lord himself. Would you have even guessed: slaves have designations too?”

“I’m not sure what any of that means,” Aziraphale admitted, hiding behind his wine and watching Ashur as covertly as possible. 

Florian laughed and then abruptly stopped. “You’re not joking. Certainly you have roles where you come from?” 

“You either serve or are served. I’m not sure why you’d need to bring a specialist in for just that.”

“Sometimes I forgot how strange foreigners are.” Florian tsked. “It’s not just serve or be served here. We’re civilized, after all. And not everyone’s the same. Hence the tests. We test for six designations, although I’ve heard other places do more. I’m not quite sure what else there would be; it just seems like splitting hairs at that point. 

“Obviously there’s a few people who aren’t interested at all, and people interested in both sides of things. Then you have lord and consort, like Ashur and I. He has the power, and I do what he says. But I’m special to him. Of course, if I step out of line, he’s obliged to do as he likes with me.” Florian smiled. “But that can be nice too. It’s all fun.” He went quiet, gazing over at his man. 

“And the, uh… other two?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Master and slave,” Florian said flippantly. “That’s the more intense stuff. You know, total control over another person. It’s part of the play, and they say everyone involved wants it, but—well, I’d prefer to be special and loved, wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale heated, looking away. He picked at his robe. To be special and loved? It sounded almost obscene. 

“I’m by no means greedy, Aziraphale. Should you want to borrow him,” Florian trailed off. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Ashur?” he finally realized. He looked over at the young man, tall and dark and with a kind enough face as he was ordered to fetch something by someone or other. “Oh,” he said, flushed all down his throat, feeling lightheaded suddenly. “I’m not—”

“I’m really not jealous. In fact, if you’d let me watch—”

“It’s only that I don’t enjoy the—the roll of consort, as you say.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he’d managed to say those words.

Florian grinned then. “More of a slave-type?” 

“No!” Aziraphale rushed. He alerted the duo discussing politics next to him and offered a quick apology. “No, I simply don’t like the _receptive_ role.”

“But,” Florian said, brow furrowed. “I know you’ve received from Dion and Crixus and—”

“No, not _that_. I mean the,” Aziraphale felt nervous just saying the word, “Submissive side. It’s not for me.” 

“Oh.” Florian blinked. “I just assumed… Well, you simply have to be tested! No. You really should try it. Here, I’ll set you up with my doctor. He was wonderful. It’s just nice to know, isn’t it?” Aziraphale had no room to argue, so he didn’t. 

The appointment wasn’t quite as Aziraphale had expected. He’d expected the questions to be more straightforward. _Do you like being hurt? How much do you cry when someone calls you a dirty whore?_ Instead, the doctor and he had a nice enough conversation, until they got into an argument and Aziraphale huffed and insulted the man’s profession and intelligence. When he’d done that, the man just smiled, and Aziraphale realized he’d been baited. 

“If we look at it from the legal definitions,” the doctor said shortly after. “Where the official designations are master/slave, lord/consort, switch, or null, you’re a master.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or horrified. “Ah. I see.” 

“That is only within the current Roman legal understanding,” the man emphasized. “In other places—” 

“Is this because I fought with you?” Aziraphale started to wring his hands, and the man looked sympathetic. 

“Yes, in part. That is the designation which can best get you what you need.” Aziraphale didn’t dare ask what it was that he needed. “Do you want me to explain the designation in a little more detail?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, softly. “I understand what a master is.” 

The man hesitated. “All right.” He started to fill out the certificate. “If you change your mind, I might be able to help you.” He paused again. “I could make this out as consort, if you’d prefer. I just worry that might be misleading.” 

“No need to lie about what I am.” Aziraphale forced a smile. He didn’t need a silly certificate anyway. He wasn’t getting involved with the guilds, and he certainly didn’t intend to visit a matchmaker. 

They both stood when it was finished. The doctor caught Aziraphale’s wrist before he could run away. “It’s okay to need guidance,” the man said, looking him right in the eye. His eyes were the lightest brown, nearly gold—and didn’t that do something funny to Aziraphale’s heart? He was broad and handsome and the grip on his wrist was firm but not harsh. “You’re absolutely lovely,” he said, and heat rushed to Aziraphale’s ears. Everything was fuzzy, and he felt weighed down and stuck in place. His hand was turned palm up, and the man stroke him there, up his life line to the tips of his fingers. “It would be an honor to take care of you.” 

Aziraphale tore his hand back. “Good day,” he managed to say, voice wobbly, and he marched out of the office and into the street. If it took him a moment to gather himself enough to remember where he was, that was no one’s business but his own.

* * *

One of Aziraphale’s favorite things about alcohol was that, after the first few drinks, you could usually say anything you wanted. Seeing Crowley by chance in the taberna reminded him that they hadn’t really chatted the last time they were together, and he had things he wanted to ask. So, when they’d finished with the oysters, and were a little more than one drink in, Aziraphale took a breath.

“Those designation tests,” he started, “Have you ever taken one?” 

Crowley snorted. His lips were darker from the drink, a little wet. Aziraphale tried not to stare as he answered. “Of course I have. You have to in some places. Waste of time, if you ask me. Always the same results, always what you already knew. I get people with, you know, _problems_ needing them, but most humans seem happier finding out for themselves.” He grinned, wide and teasing. “If you know what I mean.”

“You, ah,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Always get the same results?” He finished off the jug of wine and Crowley waved over the server for another. 

“The name’s change from place to place, but yeah,” he shrugged. “Lord, king, patriarch—one place called it “the loving hand,” which I think may be the worst one I’ve had. Why? Have you gotten different results?” 

“I’ve only been tested once,” Aziraphale admitted. Hesitantly, he said: “Master.” 

Crowley looked at him sharply, clearly surprised. “You?” he started, and then coughed because he hadn’t quite been done swallowing. “Never would have pegged you as the type,” he said, once he could.

“And what would you have pegged me as?” Aziraphale asked before thinking. Crowley shifted in his seat. “It’s just that you know me better than a doctor, don’t you? I mean, you’ve certainly known me longer.” He tried to get Crowley to smile with him, but Crowley just looked trapped. “Forget the question entirely, my dear. It’s just I must not know myself, if that’s what I got.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley’s voice was strangled still. “You do like to have things your way,” he added. 

Aziraphale nodded. It was true. The conversation didn’t recover, regardless of however much Aziraphale had had to drink. A little later, Crowley paid their tab and left.

* * *

There was a noteworthy and rather terrible moment with Arthur that sometimes Aziraphale came back to when he was feeling particularly prickly. At that time, it was not uncommon for a knight to kneel at the feet of his liege, to kiss his knuckles, and to receive that noble hand upon his head for a blessing. Aziraphale did not mind doing this. In fact, he looked forward to it because he liked Arthur, thought he was kind (as long as one stayed off the subject of women), and—most importantly—Arthur liked him as well. 

It was late, after a long day of defending the realm and do-gooding. Aziraphale’s feet were tired, and he just wanted to have a drink and a lie down in his rooms. (Not to sleep, of course, because whenever he slept, he had the most disturbing dreams.)

“Aziraphale, my friend,” Arthur greeted, arms outstretched. Before letting Aziraphale sink down, Athur squeezed him, held him to his chest, and clapped him on the back. 

When allowed to kneel, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Arthur’s knuckles and, without thought, rubbed his lips against the skin there. Arthur laughed, his hand twitching open, and Aziraphale pressed his cheek against his palm, holding the king’s hand steady so that he might feel supported. Arthur’s free hand came to rake through Aziraphale’s curls, and Aziraphale felt so helpless in his hands, so entirely vulnerable under this man. 

“My beloved friend,” Arthur said. “It has been a long day, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale nodded, keeping his eyes shut. “Sweet Aziraphale,” Arthur murmured, and his hand came to cup under Aziraphale’s chin, guiding his face up. He swiped his thumb over Aziraphale’s lips, which instantly parted to let him dip inside. “Oh, heartling,” he said, and “My darling knight.” The words made something in Aziraphale thrum, something which magnified his feeling of singular want, a needing thing. 

“Come,” Arthur said, ruffling his hair once and then pulling away so that he could help Aziraphale onto his shaking legs. Aziraphale didn’t know why his legs felt so weak. “Dear little one,” Arthur shushed. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Aziraphale came slamming back to himself, so quickly he almost felt dizzy. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, nauseated. He shook his head and took a step back. He could not do this. He could not subjugate a king, _his_ king, with his selfish urges. 

Arthur’s face pulled, but he didn’t look angry. He looked concerned. Aziraphale wanted to apologize again, but he hightailed it to his rooms again. It was never spoken of.

* * *

(The dreams weren’t nightmares, but they did cause Aziraphale some distress. Abstract and fromless, he would feel himself, a small and beloved speck in the universe, held within a hand and loved so frightfully, so entirely, that he’d nearly weep himself awake. In those dreams, he was cradled and warm, a heartbeat pressed against his ear, energy thrumming around him. He made no sounds other than sighs, other than moans, other than—and how Aziraphale hated to think of it—suckling at whatever tender thing had filled his mouth. He’d wake up trembling, with an aching sex between his legs that he hadn’t gone to bed with.)

* * *

Crowley and he became closer incrementally. They traded favors, but Crowley sought him out even beyond that, and they’d get dinner or drinks or just talk. 

It was easy talking with Crowley. Aziraphale could let his guard down. He could sit beside Crowley on a bench and lean into his warm side. Crowley would kiss his cheek in greeting, and Aziraphale could shut his eyes against him, inhale the scent of woodsmoke and earth. It would cloud his head, but with the exhale he’d be all right again. It was obviously depraved, enjoying the demon in this way, but he figured it was for the best. No one was getting hurt, and Crowley was a comfortable, settled dominant, so Aziraphale wasn’t taking advantage of some poor sap. 

It only seemed logical to become attached, to love Crowley in the way that one loved a dear, handsome friend with whom one was utterly incompatible.

(The problem was, when he dreamed, he started to smell smoke.)

* * *

He’d gotten the bookshop, and he felt settled. Unfortunately, he was also feeling lonelier, at loose ends, so he thought he might try a quick match. To do that, he got tested again (although, when he told the specialist he’d been designated as a master previously, the old man just nodded and filled out the form without asking any other questions). 

He presented the certificate to the owner of a discrete, underground club and was escorted to a private, darkly lit room. There was a large, made bed and a rack of neatly organized crops and whips and such. Aziraphale didn’t immediately recognize what they were and had gone over to inspect closely, only to reel back in shock. He promptly turned his back to them, feeling overly warm and nauseated. He pulled at his collar, removed his jacket, and waited. 

There was a soft knock, and then a man in a robe stepped in. He wasn’t too tall or too slim, but he was handsome and sharp, his head bowed. He knelt once the door was closed.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, unsure what he should do. 

“Hello, Master,” the man said. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale panicked. “Please don’t call me that.” 

“What shall I call you then?” he asked. His voice was low and smooth. He sounded completely neutral, like it didn’t matter one bit. 

“Just my name. That is, I mean, Aziraphale.” He swallowed. “And, uh… your name is?” 

“I don’t have a name,” he said. “They matched me as your slave for the night.” 

“Right.” Aziraphale exhaled. That was indeed the process: find two people at odds and give them a quiet place to even each other out. He started to fidget, twisting his pinkie ring. “If you’d be so kind as to get on the bed, please.” The man began to crawl, his robe awkwardly hanging off of him as he shuffled forward. When he got to the edge, he paused. Aziraphale, agitated and unhappy to be the only one standing, snapped. “ _Please_ get on the bed.” 

The man did, climbing up and then kneeling again, never even glancing at Aziraphale. It all made him feel rather horrible, if he thought about it too long. “Would you please look at me?” he asked, his fretting having turned into tugging on his fingers. The man’s eyes snapped up, and he looked completely blank. He was waiting for Aziraphale to do something. Aziraphale tried to remember what he was doing here. He took a step toward the bed. 

“Have you had very many masters?” Aziraphale asked. 

“More than I can remember,” the man said. “I’m a slut bitch.” 

“Please don’t use that kind of language,” Aziraphale said, starting to feel quaky and upset.

An expression crossed the man’s face for the first time: confusion. “Are you sure you’re in the right room?” he asked. 

“May I sit?” Aziraphale indicated the bed. The man looked appalled to have been asked, and Aziraphale realized his mistake. “It’s just that I _am_ a master. I’ve been tested. Only I’ve never done it before.” 

“At your age?” the man laughed. He must have realized it was rude, because he stopped. “But you’ve had sex, right?” 

“Yes, of course!” Aziraphale did finally sit.

The man looked at him for a long moment. “I could tell you what normally happens in my sessions, if you think it would help.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale beamed, relief flooding through him. “That would be excellent. Please do.” 

“A master has things he wants done, and consequences for if you don’t do them or if you do them wrong. But sometimes they’ll string you up from the beginning and give you a walloping, and that’s okay too.” The man grinned, a tiny quirk of his mouth. “I actually like that more.” 

“I don’t want to string you up,” Aziraphale explained. “Or…” He lowered his voice. “ _Wallop_ you.”

“Some masters don’t.” The man shrugged. “What do you want then?” 

“Maybe you could,” Aziraphale flinched at himself, at his own baseness, “Hold me. And stroke my hair?” 

Neither of them said anything, staring at one another. The man’s mouth had tightened like he was displeased. Aziraphale nearly got off the bed, but the man said: “Fine.” He laid on his side and raised an arm for Aziraphale to huddle against him. 

“I know it’s not what you normally like.” An arm wrapped around his middle.

“Hm.” The man used his free hand to pat his curls. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and pressed his nose against the man’s shoulder, into the silk fabric of his robe.

Held, he drifted.

* * *

“You need to get retested,” the man said after standing up. Aziraphale laid on the bed, hazy and boneless. Stroking had led to kissing, and the man had liked that Aziraphale tended to kiss with his teeth. He’d liked it so much that he’d held Aziraphale even tighter and, when he tired of kissing, tucked Aziraphale’s head underneath his chin. “Just relax,” he’d hummed, and Aziraphale had felt the vibrations of his throat all throughout his body and down his limbs, “I’ve got you.” 

(Aziraphale had nearly cried at that, although he wasn’t sure why.)

“Not everyone is as nice as me,” the man continued, fixing up his robe and getting read to leave. “Half the slaves I know would have walked out the moment you started on with all that. The other half would have laughed at you.”

Aziraphale sat up, his tender calm vanished. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you for not laughing, then.” 

“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my night.”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale refrained from reminding him that he hadn’t been obligated to stay. 

“This is my only night off every week.” The man paused by the door, looking at Aziraphale one last time. “You need someone to take care of you.” 

“But, I—” _thought that was what you were for_. Oh, but that was a cruel thing to say, especially when the man had done him such a favor by staying and not laughing at Aziraphale’s silly excuses for orders. 

“You’re a sweet boy,” the man said, and he smiled a little, seemingly out of pity. 

“You as well, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him. The man just snorted, shook his head, and left.

* * *

Aziraphale did get retested after that. He owed it to the man, even if he wasn’t sure what a new designation test would possibly help. Except he did get sidetracked by a stupid argument with Crowley. The whole thing had upset him deeply, causing him to shutter the bookshop and curl up under the covers, safe and warm and bundled, for nearly a week. He felt positively hideous about the whole thing, about how Crowley had hissed and yelled when Aziraphale was only doing what was best for the two of them. 

For a long time, though, there was no “two of them,” and Aziraphale had to distract himself with increasingly foolish schemes. He figured that when Crowley got over himself, Aziraphale would at least have something exciting to tell him. Crowley would then feel like a complete prat for having missed all the fun. 

So when a moderately lovely woman came into the shop, explaining that he was about to be contacted by the enemy to procure some odd books for Hitler, he’d had nothing else on and thought it a jolly enough idea. It didn’t hurt that Captain Rose Montgomery had knocked her knuckles against his shoulder, grinning wide. Aziraphale felt shy, happy, excited. He’d wanted to josh back, even though that would have been inappropriate. 

When he’d said yes, she’d told him what a wonderful job he was doing for his country and that it would be rather like a game when all was said and done: fun, simple, and something they would win together. It was the first time in many years that Aziraphale for some reason remembered he was supposed to have been redesignated; he felt warm and light and very much pleased. 

When his and Captain Montgomery’s double cross had been revealed, Mr. Glozier had shook his head, saying “Who would have thought? Bested, and by two little British brats,” which made Captain Montgomery snicker and probably should have been Aziraphale’s first indication that something was off. 

And then Crowley had come in and saved Aziraphale, saved Aziraphale’s _books_ , and hurt his feet doing it. Aziraphale had insisted he come back to his so he could look over them, plopping Crowley down on the couch without so much as a say-so and muscling between his legs. 

“Your shoes,” Azirpahle said, meaning that he’d like Crowley to remove them. Kneeling on the ground, he eased Crowley’s feet up and the shoes off, carefully putting them aside. He repeated with his socks and inspected the bottoms of his feet. 

“Er,” Crowley said. Aziraphale shushed him. 

“I’m taking care of you,” Aziraphale said, leaving no room for argument. “You can’t stop me.” When Aziraphale glanced up, Crowley was bright red in the face but subdued, his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned away. Aziraphale returned to his self-appointed role as doctor. Crowley’s feet were clearly burned but not blistered or scabbed like they might have been. Overwhelmed by an affection he didn’t understand, he placed a kiss to the sole of Crowley’s right foot. 

“Poor foot,” Aziraphale murmured. He then checked the other, feeling as though his kiss might really soothe it. “Poor Mr. Foot,” he said, and kissed him again. “There, now.” He gentled Crowley’s foot back to the ground. “I’ll get something to clean and dress them. Hold on, it won’t be two shakes—” 

Crowley put a hand on his shoulder before he could scoot up. Aziraphale looked up, mouth dumbly open, eyes wide. Crowley seemed very serious, although his ears were still pink. Aziraphale thought about pressing a dozen kisses to those ears. Thoughts like that would usually make Aziraphale feel wobbly and nervous. Now, as he felt pleased that Crowley was _back_ and he was letting Aziraphale see to him. The thought just felt nice. 

“It’s good to see you,” Crowley said, voice even.

Aziraphale practically glowed. He buzzed from his stomach to his fingertips. Pressing his cheek against Crowley’s knee, it didn’t occur to him to return the sentiment or to say anything at all. He just closed his eyes and sighed. 

When he opened his eyes, Crowley’s hand was hesitating, halfway to his face or cheek or hair, to touch him, to caress him maybe. Crowley must have seen something on Aziraphale’s face that he didn’t like, and he returned his hand to his lap.

* * *

Aziraphale _really did_ mean to be retested, but it took him until the 1980s to actually get around to it. 

The analyst was a pleasant, broad shouldered woman in her 40s with dark hair and glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. She greeted him in the waiting room at the exact time of their appointment. 

“Mr. Aziraphale?” she asked.

“Oh, just Aziraphale, dear,” he said, standing. 

She smiled. “Like Madonna.”

“What?” 

She kept smiling, seemingly unfazed, and shook her head. “I’m Catherine Tan.” She held the door for him and led him to her office. There were two arm chairs, angled toward each other, and a low, cushiony sofa across from them both. “Wherever you like,” she told him. She took one of the armchairs, and her feet pointed toward the couch, so Aziraphale thought that would be the best for everyone’s comfort. 

“So what have you come in for?” she asked, once he was settled. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale hesitated. It was such a delicate issue. “We talked on the phone about this.” 

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Tan said. “I just want to hear you explain it in your words.” 

“I had an _encounter_. And my partner suggested I ought to get retested for my designation.”

“Why did he suggest that?” she asked, her hands folded in her lap. Aziraphale had thought she might take notes at the very least. 

“Because I wasn’t effective in my role, I imagine.” 

“The role of master,” she clarified. Aziraphale felt a rush of relief. She _did_ remember. “Can you explain why?”

“Is that part of the test?” Aziraphale huffed. “Me explaining my past encounters.” 

“It can be.” Dr. Tan crossed her legs. “I think it’s easiest to designate someone when you know more about how they act, not just how they answer a series of questions.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose I can see that.”

“What does a typical scene look like for you? What do you enjoy?” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale shifted, clearing his throat. “I’ve only ever had two.” he watched her closely, looking for any sign of shock.

Instead she asked: “As a master?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said slowly. “The first time I was — I was in service.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Aziraphale felt more frustrated than he could stand. Was she being like this on purpose? “I was the _submissive_.” He knew that was the term, but it felt so shameful to say, so inelegant. 

“Can you tell me about that experience? Had you already been designated?” 

“I hadn’t,” he started but didn’t know where to go from there. “I had a partner of sorts, at the time. And he asked me to try the role.” Dr. Tan nodded. Aziraphale sighed. “It was all right to start with: ‘Lie down. Turn over. Do this and that.’ Really not too different from how it usually was. It felt—” good. That part had felt good. He’d felt golden warm and closer to Gabriel than he’d ever thought possible. Gabriel had whispered _good principality_ and nearly made Aziraphale come on the spot. “It felt adequate.” 

“But?” Dr Tan prompted. 

“Yes, well, he called me some names and I didn’t care for it. It was rather silly, really.” 

“Names?” 

He could hear it, harsh against his ear. _You bad, dirty whore_. That was all he’d said, but Aziraphale had started crying, loudly and sudden. He could remember it hadn’t stopped Gabriel. It was only when he’d started apologizing that Gabriel had realized something was wrong. He’d pulled out and, clearly at a loss for what was wrong, left to let Aziraphale collect himself. 

Aziraphale shrugged, although he suddenly felt like he couldn’t take a full breath. Dr. Tan didn’t push it further. “And your other scene?” 

“What’s there to say? I wasn’t good at it. Perhaps I’m a null,” he offered, although the constant swirling in his stomach of unspecified _want_ made him think otherwise. He looked at his fidgeting hands. “I asked—ordered, really—for him to hold me.”

“Sexually?” 

He shook his head. “I just wanted to be held.” 

“Do you like sex?” Dr. Tan asked. 

Aziraphale looked at her bookshelf: all diagnostic manuals and self-improvement workbooks. “Of course I do.” He read the titles. _Not “Just a Null”_ , the BDSM-V, _Settling Submissive: A Simple Relaxation and Stress Reduction Workbook_. Dr. Tan didn’t say anything. Aziraphale knew this was a tactic, and, regardless of how uncomfortable he was, he wouldn’t fold over this.

“What was your first designation test like?” Dr. Tan said, recrossing her legs. 

“The doctor and I had a conversation, and then he said I was a master. That’s all.” 

“Was it?” Here, Aziraphale made the mistake of meeting Dr. Tan’s eye. Cool and calm, she was still clearly engaged, marking every fluster and flinch. 

“He picked a fight with me, which is probably why I got the designation,” Aziraphale admitted. “And he… _offered himself_ to me afterward. Which I obviously refused! I don’t want a slave.” 

“Did he offer to be your slave, or did he offer to take care of you?” 

Aziraphale perked, shocked to be reminded. “How did you know?” 

Dr. Tan nodded. She placed both feet on the ground and leaned in. “Do you know what a little is?”

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t naive. He knew it wasn’t all whips and chains and _dirty whore_ s. He knew about soft things from books and art and one notable indecency in a park while he was meeting with Crowley. 

(On a bench a little ways down from their own, a husband and wife had been seated together. The man had taken his wife by the wrist and guided her index and middle fingers into his mouth. The woman had smiled and wrapped her other arm around his shoulder. He’d nestled against her breast. He’d sighed. He’d closed his eyes. Aziraphale had wished they hadn’t done any of it, and he knew Crowley felt the same way because he was staring too, a disgusted flush creeping up his neck.)

Walking into the second waiting room that week, Aziraphale realized he could never tell Crowley about this. Not just that Aziraphale was so incompetent that he’d agreed to let Dr. Tan set up a play test for him. The entire redesignation would have to be a secret. He didn’t want to risk their friendship, which had been developed at least partly with the knowledge that they were both dominant. 

“Mr. Aziraphale?” The secretary greeted him as he approached. “I am so sorry, but our male Big just called out sick. Violetta is in, but we can also reschedule your appointment.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, because he would never come back if he went back to the bookshop now. “No, a woman is just fine.” 

The secretary nodded and made some notes. She then smiled at him, as neat and white as the room itself, and told him that he’d be collected shortly. Aziraphale sat in one of the horrible, brown leather chairs and got very interested in the wall art, which was off a nondescript, inoffensive lily. 

The woman who called his name made idle conversation while escorting him down the dizzying white hall. She turned out to not be Violleta, which Aziraphale took with great relief because this woman was wearing a subtle, but still visible, black leather collar and intimidating lace up high heeled boots. 

“If you don’t like something,” she said once they’d stopped, “Just say ‘stop’ or ‘red.’” 

She opened the door for him, giving him a polite smile, although Aziraphale didn’t really see it. The room was like an entirely different universe: carpeted, warm, with rose-colored walls. Aziraphale had been expecting a bed, but there wasn’t one. Instead, there was a loveseat and a rocking chair. There was a table off to the side with two mismatched, well-loved chairs. The largest part of the room was taken by a large circle rug and a children’s toy chest and, just off of that, a wooden bookshelf painted in pastels. 

Violetta: a blonde done up like a primary teacher—a real one, even, not the smutty parody—in a dress and a fuzzy cardigan. She was a little younger than he appeared, and only a little shorter. She wasn’t devoid of her own eroticism entirely: her lips red, her dress filled out by her hips and thighs. But she was friendly looking. And she smiled when she saw him, really smiled, as he stood in the doorway already wringing his hands.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said, looking happy to see him, still calm and warm and unhurried. 

“Um,” he said, feeling off-balance by the whole unprecedented experience. She didn’t approach though; in fact, she moved into the room more, to the table where she had a carpet bag placed. Aziraphale felt something ease in him a little, and he started to edge in. 

“I have something for you,” she said, not looking up, searching through the bag.

“You do?” Aziraphale stepped all the way inside. The door was shut behind him before he realized he’d truly crossed the threshold. 

“Just a little something for you while we talk.” She pulled out two bags and looked them over. “Let’s see. I have double lollies and chocolate buttons. Which do you prefer?” she finally looked back at him. He had to take a step forward, just so he could see his options a little better. 

“I’ve never had either,” he said, and he felt a flare of embarrassment, although he wasn’t sure if it was because of his ignorance or because he was being offered sweets by a stranger. 

“Let’s start you with the lolly then?” she said, holding the bag out to him for him to reach in a grab one. He inched forward and immediately stepped back once he’d selected. 

“If I’d chosen the chocolate, would I have gotten the whole bag?” he asked, fiddling with the wrapper. 

Violetta smiled. She didn’t answer, but she seemed tickled. “Let’s sit and talk a bit.” 

At the table, Aziraphale quietly got underway with sucking his sweet, watching Violetta watch him. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of this, but at the very least he’d gotten a treat out of it, and that was nice. 

“My name’s Violetta. You can call me that, or Miss Violetta, or Mommy if you like,” she said the word so easily. Aziraphale sucked harder, trying to ignore it. “Your file said you were recently designated as a little,” she started. “What type of understanding did you have before about the designation?” 

“About,” Aziraphale said and then quickly wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “About this?” He couldn’t say it, so he gestured to the whole of the room. Violetta nodded. Aziraphale thought about the couple in the park and how horrified he’d felt seeing them. “Very little—I mean, not much.”

“What do you enjoy?” she asked, sitting back. “Just in your day-to-day? What do you like?” 

“Ah.” He wiped his mouth again. “I own a bookshop. I spend most of my time reading. I like good music and food,” he said, and then felt embarrassed again, because he’d gestured with the wet lolly in his hand. He tried to be less expressive. “And walks in the park. And,” he didn’t know how to say it exactly, how to frame his angelic work in this environment, “Taking care of people.”

“I like reading too,” Violetta said. “Do you like being read to?” 

Aziraphale flushed. “I haven’t — no one’s done that in a long time.” He couldn’t remember if someone had ever read to him outside of a public reading or religious service. He remembered being told stories, huddled around a fire, and that he’d always liked that. He shoved the lolly back in his mouth, not wanting to say more. The texture on his tongue was surprisingly gritty, and he liked that it gave him something to focus on. 

“Maybe we can try that together,” she offered, Aziraphale nodded so he didn’t have to speak. She was looking at him even closer now, and it made him feel naked and wobbly, like she was really seeing him—whatever he was. “I have toys too, if you wanna play with them? I have legos and dolls and crayons and — ” 

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, and he let out a panicked sound. It was too much, and Aziraphale thought about how ridiculous he would look with a doll in his hands. It was worse than a whip or a crop. He didn’t know why but it was. He looked for the door.

“Hey, now, hey,” Violetta was saying, swimming into focus, closer to him than he remembered. “Oh, sweetheart, that was too much, huh? That’s okay. Hey, Aziraphale, that’s all right.” She was by his side, kneeling, not quite touching him. She looked concerned, and Aziraphale felt like crying. It had all gone so wrong. “No, no, darling. Oh, but you are a sweetheart, aren’t you?” She reached up to take the lolly stick and ease it out of his mouth. It parted from him with a string of saliva, and she reached up with her free hand to thumb away the spit at his mouth. Aziraphale blinked at her, and she smiled. “There, now,” she murmured. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I think I should leave.”

“If you’d like to go, I can walk you out,” she said, calmly. Aziraphale had been worried that she’d look sad or angry. “But we could also talk about what it was that upset you. I think that might be a good idea, just so you don’t leave upset.” 

He took a breath, which ended up sounding stuttery because he was shaking a little. Violetta got up and grabbed a blanket from behind the loveseat and put it around his shoulders. That close, he could smell her perfume, which was rosy and fresh. The sleeve of her cardigan brushed his cheek, and he wished she’d given him that instead. 

“I don’t think I’m right for this,” he said, bundling himself up. “I think I need to get redesignated again.” 

“Why don’t you think you’re right for this?” She was kneeling in front of him again. 

“I don’t want to use — to _play_ with — ” He looked towards the toy chest helplessly. 

“Then you don’t have to,” she said. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I was not trying to scare you or pressure you in any way. Some littles take to playing quickly, but it’s perfectly all right if it doesn’t sound good now or ever. That’s not what this is about. It’s just an option.” 

Dr. Tan had told him what it was about. She’d said there was a vulnerable and sensitive headspace, and most people who experienced it referred to it as childlike. Aziraphale had never been a child, so he didn’t understand how it was possible with him. Of course, he hadn’t exactly been able to tell that to Dr. Tan and get her opinion. Still, he did feel an unsettled haziness at times, and a susceptibility to even the slightest and most meaningless affections. There were moments he truly couldn’t tell what he wanted, except to curse and stomp his feet (and have someone catch his hands and press all of him still). 

“Something about this embarrasses you,” Violetta said for him. 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“I don’t feel embarrassed.” She watched him carefully, her hands folded and still. She sounded so certain. 

Aziraphale huffed. “Of course _you_ wouldn’t feel embarrassed. You’re normal. You don’t get so—overwhelmed.” 

“I don’t know about that.” She smiled. Her smile was warm and wide, like the rest of her. It was bright, and Aziraphale ducked his gaze. “When I see someone lost or afraid or crying, I often feel very overwhelmed by my emotions. And when I see someone I care for calm and happy, that can be overwhelming too. And when I know that _I_ was the one who made him feel that way... I really can’t describe it. It’s beyond language. I could feel bad that I want to make someone so defenseless, to completely care for them so they only need me,” and she said it so casually even though the words themselves knocked the air out of Aziraphale’s lungs. He had to close his eyes, dizzy. “Spoken out loud, it sounds obsessive and controlling. So we both have to speak about what we want, to create the balance, and so we don’t feel alone.” 

“You,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “You really want that?” 

Violetta smiled again, and this time Aziraphale wasn’t so afraid to look this time. “Yes, I do.” 

“With someone like me?” he clarified. 

“Of course.” Her eyebrows twitched, scrunching for just a moment before she could school her expression back to neutral. Gently she reached forward, and she held his hand. Aziraphale would later scrutinize the look and why she hadn’t liked his question. But at the moment, he was hit with a warm thrumming between his ears. It took him a second to process what she’d said, the touch sending a jolt down his spine. “What do you want?” she asked. 

Aziraphale’s hands would have trembled if not for Violetta holding them. “I want to sit with you on the sofa, and I want — I want you to read to me. And, maybe, if it’s all right, maybe I could put my head on your shoulder?” He looked away sharply; he’d very quickly overstepped. 

She squeezed his hands, carefully pulling him back. “Okay,” she said simply. “Do you wanna pick out the book?” He shook his head; that sounded far too difficult at the moment. She nodded. “Go sit down, sweetheart,” she said, standing up to check the bookshelf. “I’ll take care of everything.”

* * *

Aziraphale went to theraplay for the next two years. He had started at once a month with two appointments with Dr. Tan, always the week before and the week following. Somewhere along the way, it got flipped around, him seeing Violetta twice monthly and Dr. Tan just once. Then he started seeing her once a week. 

“Does Violetta talk to you about getting attached?” Dr. Tan asked, about 18 months in. 

“Why?” He felt his stomach turn. 

“You’re not her sub,” Dr. Tan explained, and heat flared across Aziraphale’s face. “It’s only natural that you feel a level of attachment to her; she takes care of you, and I have no doubt that she’s fond of you. A little attachment is good. But you can’t see her forever.” 

“And why can’t I?” Aziraphale snapped, although one reason was very clear and coincidentally the reason he didn’t often get himself involved with humans. 

“Don’t you think someday you’d like to have a caregiver of your own?” 

Eighteen months ago, Aziraphale might have swooned from embarrassment. Now, he just shifted in his seat, looking firmly at the door. “I don’t think I do,” he said as coolly as he could. It was all much too scary to consider doing with someone he didn’t trust. Violetta was kind and fair and she always told Aziraphale what a good job he was doing and how happy his progress made her. 

“No one is saying that you have to do anything now,” Dr. Tan said as evenly as possible. “But it’s something to keep in mind. You shouldn’t put everything on Violetta. It’s not fair to you, when you could find someone to be with on an unprofessional level.” 

Aziraphale liked that it was professional. He liked that Violetta and he could be so open with each other. He wasn’t an idiot, and he knew it wouldn’t go on forever. He just was allowing himself to be settled for now. 

Still, he felt a little blindsided when it came to a head a few months later. 

Violetta had him seated at the table, with some colorless print of an illuminated manuscript that he was dutifully filling in. It was a simple _Book of Hours_ piece: the Christchild presented to the wise men. He was more focused on shading the swooping, curving border in red with the pencils Violetta had given him. She’d taken to giving him a lolly each time he came so he could have something in his mouth, although they’d stopped with the double lollies early on. Their grit was too rough, and Aziraphale would scratch up his tongue and the roof of his mouth. She still kept them though, and clearly gave them to her other clients. Aziraphale sometimes wondered if he was especially bad at eating sweets. 

She was tidying up from a previous client who’d made more of a mess than she could fix before Aziraphale arrived, the toys not quite organized, but he didn’t mind. He was completely, happily focused on coloring the border. “Aziraphale, I think we should talk,” she said.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale wasn’t very interested, but he didn’t want to be rude. 

“Aziraphale, can you put the pencil down?” 

“I’m listening,” he explained and kept on.

She sat beside him. She placed something on the table beside him which finally caught his full attention: a stuffed toy, white and fuzzy, with a nice, friendly face. A little sheep. At first glance, Aziraphale liked her very much, but that quickly morphed into apprehension. 

“Is that for me?” he asked, looking at Violetta. She smiled, so he put the pencil down and tentatively reached forward to touch it. It was soft, like one of her jumpers. He still wasn’t certain he wanted it. 

(He wanted it very badly.) 

“I’m very proud of how far you’ve come,” she started. “Each time I see you, you’re happier and more confident. I couldn’t be more pleased!” 

Aziraphale drew the toy to him, digging his fingers into its soft, fake wool. Normally, when Violetta spoke like this, he felt an overwhelming elation, dizzy pleasure jolting down his knees and elbows. He didn’t just then. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m going to be leaving active work. I’ve gotten a position at a training facility.” She watched him carefully. She didn’t look at all upset or guilty. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, when it was clear she was waiting for him. 

“I know you don’t feel ready to stop thereplay, and I don’t want you to if you still feel it’s useful. I was thinking, during our next session, I could invite John,”—That was the male Big—”And get you two acquainted. I think you’d like him a lot. And I know he’d just adore you.” 

“Are you doing this because Dr. Tan asked you to?” Aziraphale felt his heart sinking, or maybe breaking. 

“What?” Violetta frowned. “Why do you think Dr. Tan would ask me to do this?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. He felt shaky and upset and like he might do something shameful if he answered that question. He looked down at the page he’d been coloring with a flash of disgust. How had he let her talk him into this? Still, he kept holding the lamb. 

“I promise, Aziraphale,” Violetta was saying, “You haven’t done a single thing wrong. You are such a sweet, darling boy. I’ve just always wanted to teach. I want to make sure there are more people like me out there to help people like you.” 

“Maybe you should invite him,”Aziraphale said, softly, feeling nauseated. He didn’t want to hurt Violetta’s feelings. He wanted her to be happy, of course. Of course he wanted to not be selfish. She smiled when he said it, and she had him put his head in her lap later, as they read together on the couch. She ran her fingers through his hair. The face of the sheep tucked up under his chin, he tried to memorize what it felt like to be touched. 

A week later, when Aziraphale had been sent back by the secretary, he paused just outside the door. He heard two voices inside: Violetta and a man. 

“And what sort of discipline does he take?” the man asked. Aziraphale’s heart froze. 

“Oh, none. We haven’t gotten to that yet.”

“Really?” the man scoffed. “Violetta, it’s been almost two years and you haven’t even laid out rules for him.” 

“He’s skittish,” Violetta said, all businesslike. “I can’t even say ‘coloring book’ around him or he gets nervous. And if I express any displeasure with him when he’s little, he shuts right down. He’s a very special case. You have to go slow with him.” 

The man inside sighed. “Poor thing,” he said, and Aziraphale couldn’t really decipher his tone. Was he being mocked? Did the man already dislike him? Aziraphale was trembling, just like VIoletta said he would. He turned on his heel, told the secretary he’d forgotten something, and he didn’t come back.

* * *

Aziraphale was fine, for the most part. He’d gotten on fine before all of that nonsense with therapy, and he’d get on fine after it. Knowing the names of his aches and desires made it simple to shoo them away.

(Or at least, it ought to have.

In the room above the bookshop, which no one ever visited, he had a bed he could cozy up on. He had a special collection of books he’d liked to have read with Violetta but was perfectly and uncomplicatedly happy to read by himself, and the sheep whom he had not named because that was an entirely foolish thing to do. On occasions where he felt particularly wanting, he’d go upstairs and allow himself a slight, contained dalliance. He’d take off his shoes, jacket, and waistcoat, but nothing else. Her certainly wouldn’t make himself too comfortable. He’d get into bed with _Trumpet of the Swan_ or _The Faerie Queene_ or, if he was feeling very unashamed, _The Story of Ferdinand_. There were sweets stashed in the bedside drawer, just some small things to keep his mouth occupied. The first few times before he’d perfected his system, his thumb had migrated to his mouth, which had felt very good and entirely wrong. He wouldn’t cuddle the sheep, but it would rest beside him, and that was enough.)

* * *

Nanny Ashtoreth posed a serious problem to Aziraphale’s resolve and therefore his wellbeing. During the daytime, when he was playing Francis and Crowley was Nanny, it wasn’t too much of a problem. They had work to focus on, which helped. Besides, Francis was clearly a null, as Aziraphale was nothing if not dedicated to an authentic performance.

The issue was that, sometimes when Warlock wasn’t around, Crowley would stay in character and Aziraphale would not. 

That particular evening, Crowley had darkened the door of Aziraphale’s little bungalow on the grounds, likely for a previously arranged nightcap. “Come in, my boy! I’ll just be a moment.” Aziraphale called, fussing in the kitchen, getting the wine and some nibbles organized. 

“Oh,” Nanny said, low and smooth. High heels clicked against the stone flooring. “Take your time, pet. I’m in no hurry.” Aziraphale nearly tripped over his own feet at her voice. He was grateful that the kitchen was far from the front door, because he’d needed to take a few breaths, which meant he lost track of just where her footsteps were in the hut. “Can I help you with anything?” Nanny asked, from the kitchen entryway, startling Aziraphale in jumping.

“Gah!” he said, trying to look simply surprised. “You caught me off guard.” He tried to laugh. Nanny clicked closer to him. With the heels, she towered over him, her face clearly patient even with her eyes hidden. Her perfume, rosy and dusty and _warm_ , made Aziraphale’s nose tingle. 

“You’re wound tighter than a well pulled stitch, dear,” she tsked. She took the plate out of his hands. “Go sit. I’ll take care of this.” 

The heat that flooded from Aziraphale’s chest to his pelvis quickly fogged up his head. “Nanny,” he said, softly, lips parting as he looked at her. She was so close, and he could feel the warmth her body radiated. He could smell her lipstick: some kind of muggy, tinged balm. Aziraphale took a jolting step back, and he shuddered another laugh. “Ah, Crowley, please, do give it up,” he begged, casually as one might. “It’s a fine joke, but I do rather think we have things to discuss.” 

Nanny was watching him closely, her brow tight, like she suspected, like she _realized_. He turned away, grabbing the bottle and glasses and heading to the tiny parlour cum living quarters.

Crowley had his slick, toothy smile back in place when he walked in. “You should have seen the look on your face.” 

Aziraphale puffed up. “What about it?” 

Laughing, Crowley set the plate out. “All affronted. Clutching your pearls, practically. Like you thought I was trying to ravish you or something. Nanny’s hard to turn off, if you know what I mean.” Crowley took his wine glass from Aziraphale and settled back on the ratty, hard sofa. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to get into a pissing competition about which of us is the more dominant.” 

“Oh, it’d hardly matter,” Aziraphale deflected. “I mean, look at the Dowlings. They’re both, er, _dominants_ , and they live together well enough.” 

Crowley’s face crinkled. “What? The Dowlings? They are not.” He hadn’t had any of the wine yet, but somehow Aziraphale was almost done with his glass. “You really can’t tell?”

“Are they nulls?” he tried. 

“Whoa!” Crowley choked, looking delighted at Aziraphale’s poor choice of words. “‘Nulls,’ angel? It’s not the 1980s anymore! _Vanilla_.”

“But,” Aziraphale blinked, very much off-balanced. “It was null for so long.” 

“Come on,” Crowley snorted.

“All right, are they vanilla, then?” 

“You really don’t know?” Crowley pressed, incredulous. “You haven’t noticed?” 

“You know,” Aziraphale put his empty glass down harder than one ought to. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my business. I don’t really care.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that.” 

“Like what? I’m simply not interested. I don’t like gossiping. It’s unangelic,” and he sniffed primly to punctuate. 

“You love gossip,” Crowley cawed. “Come on. I’m sorry!” and then his voice went low and smooth and picked up that accent. “Nanny has an effect on men like Mr. Dowling. Of course the good Mr. Francis wouldn’t notice.” 

“What?” Aziraphale breathed. 

“Mr. Dowling, poppet. He’s an absolute brat. Nanny’s specialty.” And then Crowley, fully himself again, said: “Of course, I don’t have time for brats like Dowling.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes behind his glasses. Disgusted. 

Aziraphale choked. “How annoying, truly.” His hands only trembled a little as he poured himself another glass. 

“Something wrong?” Crowley asked, sitting up. 

“Must just be stress,” he hummed. “Armageddon, and all that.” 

Crowley shifted. “I know we’ve never really had each other underfoot like this before,” he started, stilted and awkward. “But I could cover for you if you wanted to, you know… blow off some steam.” Aziraphale stared at him, mouth opening in slow realization, not sure what to say. “I mean, this whole Nanny gig has me worked up all the time.” Crowley cleared his throat, uncrossed, and then recrossed his legs. He put his mostly untouched wine glass onto the coffee table. “So, I’ve been fucking off to Oxford every now and then. To see a professional,” he intoned. “Helps with the stress.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale mouthed. “Yes,” he said, instead of asking just when Crowley was _fucking off_ to Oxford.

“I could, uh… give you their number? They’re good. Although, I don’t know what you like. But he’s flexible—hah, I mean, he’s open to different types of scenes.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, harsher than he meant. “Thank you for the thought, but I’m fine.” 

“It’s just,” Crowley continued, “Might make you less shaky.” He nodded at Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Either way,” Aziraphale flinched, speaking louder to cover up his mortification. “I can find my own—well…”

“Slave, right?” Crowley said, lightly. 

“Oh, let’s not discuss it. Just tell me about how Warlock was tonight.” 

Crowley tight-lipped a smile and shrugged. They talked about the antichrist, and that was much better.

* * *

He _did_ hire a professional in Oxford, because everytime Nanny called him _pet_ or _dove_ , Aziraphale wanted to sink to his knees and suck Crowley’s fingers into his mouth. That wouldn’t do. Crowley was hard enough to deal with as it was, always so generous and considerate. The overtness of Nanny was a step too far. And, besides, he’d left ~~Mrs. Sheep~~ the sheep toy at home with all his books, so it wasn’t like he could handle it alone.

The professional dom introduced himself as Daddy, and Aziraphale’s stomach flopped. “Must I really call you that?” 

“What do you prefer?” he asked. “Papa? Sir? Mister?” 

“Mister is fine,” Aziraphale sighed, resolving regardless to not use the dom’s name if possible. 

“And what do I call you?” Mister asked. He was handsome and smiley, although in a rather bland way. At least he wasn’t wearing a leather harness, like the receptionist had been.

“Aziraphale.” 

“There’s no pet name you prefer? Aziraphale’s a little long.” 

“Yes, well, it’s my name,” he snipped. 

“And as far as discipline goes?” Mister was still smiling, but there was something more confident now, like he knew he was about to enjoy himself. 

Aziraphale hadn’t thought about discipline. He and Violetta had never gotten that far. He remembered how inadequate he’d felt, listening outside the door as she told John that. “What’s standard?” he asked.

“Most go for spanking,” Mister explained. “But if you have something specific you like, we can do that. I’ve had a few littles who wanted to get their mouths washed out with soap, but if you haven’t tried that before, I’d advise against it.” 

“We’ll do the — the first one.” 

Mister’s smile broadened, grew sharper. “All right. I can spank you. Bare-bottom?” 

“Is that normal?” Aziraphale asked, starting to fidget. 

“It’s better,” Mister assured him. Aziraphale shifted minutely to check if he’d remembered to keep his effort on; he had, a nice enough cock and balls, because that’s what Francis kept. 

They went over the details of the scene, Mister offering suggestions to what was average dom/little play and Aziraphale agreeing to all of it indiscriminately. 

“Do you have a safeword or do you prefer traffic lights?” 

“You mean red for stop?” Aziraphale checked. 

Mister laughed. “Yeah.”

“That’s what I prefer, then.” And Aziraphale forced a smile for him. 

“You drop into littlespace pretty easy, huh?” Mister asked, and he stepped closer, making Aziraphale freeze up, his head all hot suddenly. 

“Um,” he said. 

“That’s okay. I like that. It’s cute.” Mister, with his nice pressed suit and his neat hair, stepped into his space, hovering close. “You’re cute.” 

“Oh.” 

“You wanna get changed?” he asked, taking a sudden step away, slamming Aziraphale back into himself, making him sway a little. 

“Changed?” Aziraphale blinked. 

“Are you going to wear that?” Mister gestured at his jacket and bowtie and largely unsexy, inappropriate outfit. 

“I was planning to.” Aziraphale started to remove his jacket. Anxious, he asked: “What should I wear?” 

“You should wear what you want.” Mister looked confused as Aziraphale neatly folded his jacket and then bent to take off his shoes. The loss of the slight heel made Aziraphale feel even smaller. “I just want you comfortable. I like your clothes. They’re very you.” That got Aziraphale to stop, momentarily, from wondering if he could distract Mister enough into not realizing he’d materialized new clothes, which he hated doing anyway. 

“Are you certain?” Aziraphale asked, and then kicked himself, because the way he said it made it seem like what Mister said really mattered. And it didn’t, or it shouldn’t. He just didn’t want to do it wrong. 

“Sure, I’m certain,” Mister smiled, bright and seemingly genuine.

“I’ll keep the jumper then,” but he took off the bowtie and undid his top button. 

Mister eyed where Aziraphale had bared his throat. Had he gone too far? “Do you wanna get started then?” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, and he went to the small sofa and sat on the edge, waiting for Mister to start. 

The theatrics of it should have made him laugh. Mister stepped out of the room and then swung the door wide open. He didn’t quite say _Honey, I’m Home!_ but it was a near thing. “Where’s my good boy?” he asked, looking right at where he had left Aziraphale on the couch. The word sent a jolt to Aziraphale’s stomach. That was him: his good boy.

“Oh, hello,” he stood, playing with his ring, “Mister.” 

The door was shut, and Mister went to him, taking his hands and stilling them. Mister’s hands were warm, bigger than his own. Aziraphale became very interested in that. “Why are you so nervous, baby?” He looked concerned. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to speak. Violetta had never made him speak. He quite suddenly realized how little he said when he was like this. 

“Oh, baby,” _that word_ , again, had Aziraphale’s head spinning. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” 

He was supposed to say something, fess up to some minor misdeed. Mutely, he shook his head. He looked down at his shoes now, all the way across the floor, where he’d put them. 

“Did you pick up your room like I asked you to?” Mister prompted. Aziraphale shook his head again. “No? But you promised me you would.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes,” he managed out, although it was whispery. Mister was still holding him steady, his rough thumb rubbing over the soft tops of his hands. Did he like how soft Aziraphale’s hands were? Could Aziraphale convince him to kiss them, lightly, and tease his inner wrists with his teeth? 

“What did we agree on if this happened again, honey?” Mister hooked a finger under Aziraphale’s chin and nudged his face up. “Huh?” 

Aziraphale muttered it, hoping it would be enough. 

“What was that?” 

“A _spanking_ ,” he said. Even through the embarrassment and the fluff that was filling up his head, Aziraphale could feel his prick starting to perk. 

“And what’s your color, Aziraphale?” he asked. Aziraphale blinked at him. He repeated. “What’s your traffic color?” 

“Oh,” he said, feeling somewhat himself again. “Green.” 

Mister smiled, warm and friendly and just a little sharp. “Go ahead and get ready. Pull these off,” he said, giving a quick tug at Aziraphale’s hip in his trousers. 

“Um,” he said as Mister let go of his hands and took off his jacket. He set it over the sofa’s arm.

“What is it, baby?” 

“Where should I—?” Aziraphale gestured vaguely. 

“Over my lap on the couch.” Mister glanced back at him and frowned. “Do you need me to help you?”

Aziraphale thought about it, his hand coming to his mouth. He chewed at his thumbnail. Mister sighed, but he didn’t sound angry. He held out a hand. “Come here, let me help you.” Aziraphale stepped forward and Mistere started unbuttoning for him. “You’re too little, aren’t you, honey?” 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was falling forward because Mister had pulled him or because his legs had given out. _You’re too little_ , he thought, feverish. Over Mister’s knee, he could press his face into the recently cleaned scent of the sofa. His cock, half hard, was trapped between them. He hoped Mister wouldn’t mind. 

“We agreed on 15?” Mister asked. Aziraphale nodded. He fisted his hand by his mouth, testing the material, pressing his lips shut. “I’m not gonna make you count. I’m not mean. Am I, baby?” Aziraphale shook his head. His legs were quivering now, the anticipation eating at him.

The first hit didn’t hurt that much, and it was clear that Mister was starting slow. It wasn’t until the fifth one that he smacked a little harder and Aziraphale gasped. It was quieter than the crack of Mister’s hand, but it still made them both pause, taking a breath together. Aziraphale flexed his toes and wiggled into a better spot, and the next slap was harder still. 

The smothered noise Aziraphale made was somewhere between a whimper and a chime, and mister stroked over his bare arse, rubbing against where Aziraphale was growing hot. Aziraphale knew that some people got hard over things like this, but he hadn’t expected he would be the same. It hurt, but Mister was careful, and with the seventh and eighth hits Aziraphale was desperately trying to keep his voice down, tears just starting to well.

“This is what you needed, huh?” and Mister’s voice was a little breathier too, gruffer. Aziraphale nodded against the cushion. Maybe he _had_ needed this, to be dropped down and hurt, a little. Mister started hitting him again, relentless and quick, and Aziraphale didn’t feel much of anything except a sting and a throb and Mister’s other hand, pressing down against his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Look at you,” Mister hushed. Aziraphale had lost count, sniffling a little, grateful and whole and contained. “What a bad, little boy.”

“What?” Aziraphale breathed. 

“I said you’re a bad boy that needs to be punished,” and he spanked him again on the sore bottom. Aziraphale didn’t feel it though. All he could feel was his breath disappearing. There was some terrible sensation. Guilt. He pushed up trying to get out of the hold. 

“Whoa,” Mister laughed and muscled him back down. “Guess you still wanna be naughty.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head, trying to squirm away. “No, stop.” 

“Um, Aziraphale,” Mister said, still holding him. 

“Stop,” he begged. “I’m sorry, stop, please, I’m sorry, stop, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“What color—”

“ _Red_ , red, red, I’m sorry, please, oh, let me up and please—” He was sitting by then, crying into his hands, Mister now off the sofa and hovering to the side.

“Aziraphale, can I touch you?” 

“No, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, repeating. 

“That’s all right. Here, let me get you a blanket and some water. I’m just going over to the table.” 

Once Aziraphale had his trousers fixed and had stopped shaking and had drained half the water (enough that he could taste again and remember just how vile bottled water tasted), Mister asked, “Do you want to talk about what happened?” He’d pulled up a chair, seating himself just a little away. 

“I’m not a good little,” he said. “I can’t take discipline.” 

“I mean,” Mister’s eyes flickered down meaningfully. “You seemed to be enjoying it for a while. I think I said something.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eye. Finally he said, “I thought you were upset with me. Really, truly upset, not for play. It made me feel awful. When I get like this,” Aziraphale explained, knowing his owed Mister but feeling thoroughly self-conscious, “I can’t take feeling I’ve made someone unhappy with me. I was seeing someone for a while, medically I mean, but we never had time to fix that. I’m all wrong for this.” 

“Aziraphale,” Mister said, snagging his attention. “There’s not a _right way_.”

“Oh, really—”

“No, let me finish. The whole problem with the designation system is it makes people think they have to be a particular way about things. But it’s not a one-size-fits-all. It makes sense to me that someone who falls little so fast and easily, who doesn’t have a regular dom, and who feels like they’re not performing correctly might not like any kind of mean dirty talk or degradation.” 

“But _doms_ like it,” Aziraphale said. “Or at the very least, when someone is as poorly behaved as I am, it’s expected. And I do know what I am, what a pest I can be.” 

Mister smiled. “I think any Big or caregiver that you chose to play with would like making you happy more than anything else.” He shrugged. “If my sub told me that I could never call them naughty again, I think I would manage just fine.” 

“You’re very kind,” Aziraphale mumbled, setting the blanket tighter around his shoulders. 

“Not really.” Mister scrunched his nose. He stood. “Our time’s almost up, so I’ll give you the room to get yourself together. But, for what it’s worth, I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I meet a lot of subs. You seem all right.” And he left before Aziraphale could say anything to that. 

Aziraphale folded the blanket, put on his shoes, and went back to work. The rest didn't bear thinking about.

* * *

They saved the world. 

(They had little to nothing to do with saving the world. Aziraphale had a hard time believing the boy, the _real_ antichrist, would have ever actually gone through with it. But Crowley and he _had_ been there for it and _had_ gotten in trouble for it, so that had to count for something.)

They had dinner at the Ritz, and the next day dinner at the Savoy. At the Savoy, they drank too much and got a room as a joke, which ended up not being a very funny joke because they ended up in bed with each other. They would argue over who initiated it, but the two quickly downed bottles of a charming and rather zippy Chateau Mirabeau certainly got some credit. Crowley had kissed his chest, his stomach, his thigh. He’d said _I love you, angel, I adore you_ and ate his cunt. And when they sobered up afterwards, he didn’t take back what he’d said, so Aziraphale didn’t either. They got dessert instead. 

From there it was constant, happy little outings, always with dessert and always with a nightcap in Mayfair or Soho and always with a morning after. Aziraphale was deliriously pleased, and the worry that Crowley would soon get bored with it all only bothered him for moments at a time. And after about a week of that, at the counter of a little kebabs place in South Kensington that Crowley had said was good, things became more difficult.

“Oh, how very strange it is to be free from all of it!” Aziraphale chirped, watching his kofte and dolma be prepared with rapt attention. Crowley was a close presence at his side, probably watching him watch the cook. “At the very least, to be retired. To not be reporting in and _dreading_ my quarterly reviews! No more downstairs for you or upstairs for me. We can just stay together on the same floor, thank you! How wonderful!” He didn’t know if he said it to the idea or to the young cook, who handed over his basket. He took a moment, just to breathe (and wait for Crowley to get his too, although it was just a bit of hummus). “Now, we just have to wonder about what we want to do,” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. He had been right; Crowley had been watching him, closely and avidly. He grinned. “I’d say we’ve been doing very well on that front so far!” 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Crowley hummed, leaning in, like Aziraphale was some silly priest Crowley was tempting with his full, professional expertise. Aziraphale tucked in because he figured it must be a joke of some sort. Still, Crowley sprawled out, his arm curving along the back of his seat, a finger coming up to flick over one of Aziraphale’s ears, which he now knew were sensitive. “Different ways for us to spend our time.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale tried not to blush. When the cook offered over Crowley’s plate, he ended up grabbing it because Crowley was too focused on whatever he thought he was doing. “Thank you, dear. And what exactly have you come up with?” 

“I thought,” Crowley said, completely ignoring the hummus, although this was to be expected as he’d likely purchased it in case Aziraphale wanted some. “It might be fun for us to double team a sub, you and I. Loads of people do it. Sharing a sub.”

“What?” Aziraphale laughed, choking on kofte. 

“You know,” Crowley hissed, “Hire a professional and have a scene together. Couples do it. It wouldn’t seem weird. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big deal?” Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, wings batting against a fury. “Oh, but — but it is, to me! I can’t just — ” 

“Say no more, angel,” Crowley said, scooting away. He broke off a bite of pita and nudged the hummus around his basket with it. “Just a thought. No need to make a fuss.” His ears were pink, Aziraphale could tell, even in the dark of the small shop. 

There were moments, like this one, or when Crowley smiled at him a certain way or called him _angel_ in a particular tone of voice, that Aziraphale almost gave himself up. His knees would go weak. He knew what Crowley tasted like now, knew how he sounded when he liked something Aziraphale did in bed. He could trust Crowley, he knew, and yet...

And yet Aziraphale was a terrible sub, poor at service, disobedient, and weepy. Crowley didn’t like brats; he’d said as much only a few years ago, and Aziraphale knew himself well enough at this point to understand what he was, even if he didn’t like it. He was inclined towards misbehavior but couldn’t handle the resulting, earned censure. He didn’t want to force that on Crowley.

“Of course, my dear,” he started, lightly, “ _You_ can have a sub, should you want. It’s only fair,” he said, although it didn’t feel so. The idea of it made Aziraphale feel heartsick. 

“I said forget it.” Crowley wasn’t outwardly angry, but he wouldn’t look at Aziraphale. They didn’t speak much more, and Aziraphale only half-enjoyed his meal. 

Crowley came back with him to the bookshop, even though Aziraphale was certain he’d much rather mope alone. However, once the door was shut and they were safely inside, Crowley sank to his knees.

Aziraphale’s hands clasped, stuck together in shock. “What’s this about, old boy?” 

“I’ve tried, angel, I really have,” he said, ragged. “But I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.” 

“Crowley — ” Aziraphale started, frozen. And it had only been one week. “Stand up. Please. What are you talking about?” 

“I thought I could ignore it, and then I thought maybe we could share or something, but I don’t want to share. So, please, Aziraphale, let me be your slave. I don’t care about my designation. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get retested if you want it official — I just want to take care of you.” 

Aziraphale made some high, strangled laugh. “What? No, this doesn’t make sense. Dear, stand up.” 

“Please,” Crowley said, shuffling forward on his knees. Aziraphale let him take his hand when Crowley reached for it, too dumbstruck to stop him. “Let me be your slave,” he begged, kissing along his knuckles, cradling his delicate fist in both hands. “I feel crazy, and I did—I tried to ignore it, but I don’t want you to have anyone else, and I hate being with other people. Please let me be your slave.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale trembled, “I don’t want a slave. Oh, please, stand up. Please, darling, I can’t — I — ” and he fumbled, trying to pull him to his feet. Crowley leaned in, clutching at his waistcoat, burying his face in Aziraphale’s middle. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley muffled against him. He took a deep breath, hands clutching and unclutching at his sides. “All right, I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry over,” Aziraphale hushed, one hand cradling his head.

“There is,” Crowley moaned. “I want to hold you so much,” and he choked off. 

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale thought one of them might cry, which he didn’t feel equipped to handle. “Okay, my dear. Up you come. You want to be my slave? Okay. Come on, stand up. You’re my slave; I want you to stand please.” 

Crowley finally did, eyes downcast. “So, what do I do next?” 

“Oh, I didn’t really mean you’re my slave. I just wanted you off the ground. Here, let’s sit. Together. On the sofa.” Without letting go, Aziraphale dragged Crowley along, setting them side by side. “I don’t want you to force yourself against your nature, which is why you must put that Master/slave business out of your head. Please.” 

“But I want to do things for you. I already do, all the time!” 

“Yes, and I like that. Very much. It’s only that — oh — well — I haven’t been altogether honest with you. Or, rather, there have been updates and I may have failed to inform you of them.” Crowley blinked at him, mouth tight. Aziraphale sighed, letting go of Crowley’s hands to fiddle with his own. “You see, my first test, I was misdesignated. Or maybe they didn’t have the word for what I am in Rome — sort of like how null is now vanilla, you remember? Yes, well, the doctor used what he thought was best. So I really do mean it when I say I don’t want a slave.” Aziraphale tried to make it sound like the idea was funny, but neither of them laughed. “Ah, yes, well, I don’t know if having the wrong designation for so long caused it or if it’s just the way I am but I’m not—adequate in my role.” 

“You mean you’re submissive?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale thought back. “Yes. Didn’t I say that?” 

“Not as such.” Crowley croaked. 

“Oh, dear, it’s just that I’m embarrassed. You have to understand I’m not good at it. I’m terrible at being of service.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” Crowley must have been trying to be difficult, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the irritation that came in. 

“ _All of us serve, and some of us are happy to serve a little more_. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Are you actually quoting that heavenly doctrine ‘God made all subs for the benefit of their dom’ propaganda shite?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth pinched, and he felt himself getting defensive and angry and inarticulate. “That’s how it is, though! And I _know_ some aren’t as obedient, but they get a proper thrashing and talking to, and that’s part of their fun! But I don’t like that either!” He didn’t think it was worth noting that he might not actually mind a thrashing, in moderation. 

After a moment, Crowley said: “So what do you like?” His tone, quiet and even, startled Aziraphale as much as if he’d shouted. 

“I like,” Aziraphale tried to say, heat rushing behind his eyes. “I like being read to. And held. And _comforted_.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, looking away. “I like to be made to feel like I’m very vulnerable and delicate and thoughtless, like I need to be taken care of. I like — “ he broke off again, hands clenching. “Soft things. I have a — a _sheep_ upstairs,” he said, and almost started crying out of shame. “Not a real one, a — a — ”

“A toy,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale made a funny, strangled sound in his throat, still unable to look at him. “”I like simple tasks. Back in play therapy — which I was in because I’m not any good at this — I took to _coloring_ , and braiding my dom’s hair, when she’d let me. I — ” he warbled, but he had to get it all out. It was only right. Crowley had to know, and Aziraphale had to say it, just once, if it was going to ruin everything. “I have to have something in my mouth. Sweets or — ” his eyes darted to Crowley’s hands. “And the moment I’m like that, _little_ , I barely want to speak, and I absolutely dissolve if I think I’ve done something to upset someone. I’m worse than a brat. I’m a brat that’s too sensitive to be scolded. And so I didn’t tell you because I thought it’d be easier — but I didn’t mean to hurt you, or lie, or make you think you weren’t wanted.” He might have begged Crowley not to leave as well, if he hadn’t had the presence of mind to know that was inappropriate. 

“Huh,” Crowley said. Aziraphale glanced up at him. He was staring at him closely, giving away nothing about how he felt. 

“‘Huh?’” Aziraphale repeated. “He says ‘huh?’ What on earth does that mean!” He could hear it in his own voice, a hysterical tinge, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it. “What am I supposed to do with that?” He took to fidgeting harder than before. 

“No, angel,” Crowley said, his palm covering Aziraphale’s hands and stopping him in one motion. “I was just thinking. You, uh, asked me, a while back, what I thought you should be designated as. I was thinking I might have saved us some trouble if I’d answered differently.”

Aziraphale stared at him, and then he realized what had been said. “You mean you knew! You suspected!” 

“I mean, clearly I didn’t _know_.” 

“Well, now you do,” Aziraphale snipped. “And you haven’t said if you don’t mind or if you’re disgusted or if it’s — “ all right. He couldn’t say that part, because it was presumptuous. 

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, pained to remind him. “I offered to be your slave five minutes ago. How could this possibly be a problem for me?” 

“Because, you don’t want a sub like me!” 

Crowley looked taken aback, and his hand twitched on top of Aziraphale’s. “Yes, I do.” He frowned. “How would you know?” 

“You said so! In the cottage, at the Dowlings’!” 

“I don’t think I did,” Crowley said. He thought for a half second. “No, doesn’t sound like me.” 

“We were talking about Mr. Dowling!” Aziraphale explained emphatically. “You said you weren’t interested in brats!” 

Brow furrowed, Crowley seemed to be trying to make sense of what Aziraphale was saying. “I really don’t think I would have said that. I prefer brats, like you. I mean, what can I say?” he smiled, leaning in a little. “I’m a soft touch.” 

“But,” Aziraphale stammered. “You,” he tried. “I’m no fun at all when I’m little!” he tried to remind him.

“Yes, I heard. You want to cuddle and read; not too different from how you are generally, when you think about it.” Crowley was still smiling, and there was an edge to it. Like he was teasing. 

“Different enough,” Aziraphale glowered, or he would have if one as angelic as he could do so. 

“All right,” Crowley sighed, leaning back, like he’d had enough. “Come here.” He patted his lap. 

“What? No!” Aziraphale flustered, trying to pass the resulting heat burning his cheeks as disdain.

“Come on, angel, sit with me.” 

“I won’t sit on your lap!” he growled, and when Crowley didn’t look convinced, he added: “I'm too big!”

“You weren’t too big last night,” Crowley said. “Got in my lap pretty quickly then.” 

“Yes, well, that was different, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale hissed. Crowley just pat his lap again. “I’ll crush you!” 

“You won’t.”

“ _Crowley_!” 

“I say you won’t, and the only way to prove me wrong is for you to come sit, so.” He grinned. Aziraphale sighed and moved from his seat beside Crowley to perch on his lap. “Oh, no, you’ll have to put all your weight on me. Only way to do it right.” Aziraphale huffed and squirmed closer, side-saddle and firmly seated in his lap. Crowley draped an arm over his thighs, the other thrown over the back of the sofa. “There now, let’s see. It’s not so bad, is it?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale mumbled, ‘Oh, I don’t know.” 

“I think it’s _grand_ ,” he said, completely at ease. The hand at Aziraphale’s hip stroked him, groping the soft flesh gently. 

“I wish you didn’t look so smug.” Carefully, slowly, Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. He didn’t know what else to do with them. “Remember when you were offering to be my slave earlier?” 

“I’m still your slave,” Crowley promised. “And I’ll read to you all you want, and grow my hair out for you to braid, and fill you up with sweets and fingers and whatever else you like.”

Aziraphale swallowed. His head spun. “Are you teasing me?” 

“Sort of,” Crowley said, “But I mean it too. I like that you’re a sensitive brat. I’d like to take care of you, if it’s what you wanted.” And when Aziraphale didn’t answer right away, Crowley jostled his legs a little. “This is nice, isn’t it? The weight of you in my lap. Holding you.”

“But what do you _want_?” Aziraphale pressed. He fiddled with the collar of Crowley’s jacket. “If you didn’t have to manage it through me.” 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Crowley kept bouncing his legs, like this was fun for him. “I want whatever you’ll give me. I want to take care of you as much as you’ll let me. I want to be your caregiver.” 

“No, but what do _you want_?”

Crowley’s mouth quirked, not quite irritated but obviously displeased that this was difficult. “So,” he said, growing still, his grip on Aziraphale firm. “You want to know all the really dirty stuff, huh? The nastly, depraved things I thought about when I was all alone.” 

Aziraphale suddenly felt that he very much didn’t want that, but it was only right that Crowley got to say his. So, he nodded. 

“I want,” Crowley began, straightening up, clutching Aziraphale to him, “To make you so satisfied you never look anywhere else for what you need. I want to make you feel so off-balance and so delicate that you _cling_ to me. I want to take you under hand and care for you instead of you ever punishing yourself. And I _want_ ,” he added, a little rough, but not cruel, not _mean_ , “To bloody read to you and play with you and teach you to say the word ‘toy,’ apparently. I want to make you happy, to force you to be happy, to give you no other alternative than to be happy.” And then his touch was light again, one hand curving up his back. "If that's all right." 

Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, pressed his mouth against Crowley's neck. It was partly to hide his own face. “All right,” he murmured, taking the clean smoke-scent of him in. “We can try.”

* * *

The next few days weren’t very different from how they normally did things. Crowley indulged Aziraphale here and there, although less theatrically begrudging than he might have in the past. They talked and on occasion bickered and almost always had a cuddle and a snog on the couch before moving to a bed (or a wall or the floor or actually just staying right there on the sofa).

Except now, Crowley would lightly, inconspicuously trace his forefinger over Aziraphale’s lip when they were lying together afterwards, and Aziraphale knew if he opened his mouth, it would dip inside and he would close his eyes and cradle it against his tongue. And every now and then, when Aziraphale had made Crowley laugh or come, Crowley would say, “oh, angel, oh my good darling.” Aziraphale would feel himself, warm and hazy, but only for a moment. He would sharply snap out of it, and each time must have been apparent, because Crowley always looked a little disappointed. 

“What books do you like when you’re little?” Crowley would try to ask, or, “What’s the headspace like for you?” and Aziraphale would get red-faced and flustered until Crowley himself would squirm and say, “Maybe later.”

“Your other subs, they were…?” Aziraphale asked during his second glass of wine that night, a book in his lap while Crowley did something on his mobile telephone. Crowley glanced up, but he didn’t finish the sentence for Aziraphale. “Like me?” he finally said. 

“Like you?” Crowley snorted. “Angel, no one’s like you.”

“No, I mean… _littles_.” He kept his book open on his lap, although Crowley tossed aside his cellular. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, some of them. But, er, I never really wanted to stick with anyone for too long and you have to build trust with some littles.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Like the trust we have?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, shrugging. “Not yet. Still getting you all comfy. Might take awhile ‘cause you’re so stubborn.” 

“Hm.” Aziraphale said, pointedly going back to his book. Crowley laughed and picked his mobile back up.

“You know, you could always show me your stuff, if talking about it’s hard,” Crowley said, overly casual. Aziraphale caught him sneaking a peek to gauge his response.

Which was how the two of them ended up in the room upstairs, Aziraphale grabbing the few books and the sheep from the drawer. He’d hidden them away quickly, when Crowley and he had started needing the bed regularly. He would have felt bad for stashing away the sheep, except he knew it wasn’t a real sheep and such an emotional attachment would be ridiculous.

Carefully, he set the books on the bed and the soft toy beside them. Crowley didn’t react for a second, and then jumped a little when Aziraphale started to get nervous and fidget. 

“This is it?” he asked, surveying them closer now. 

“I have other books,” Aziraphale said defensively. “They’re just downstairs. I change them out every now and then. I can’t just keep a bookshelf up here.” 

“Why not?” Crowley picked up one— _The House at Pooh Corner_ —which Aziraphale had inconveniently forgotten was up here.

“I’m only reading that because I’ve read through other things!” he said, clutching his hands tightly to keep from snatching the book away.

“That’s what I figured,” Crowley nodded. “After all, this is the second book, isn’t it?” He opened it, flipping through. “I always liked the pictures.”

“Oh, you would!” Aziraphale scoffed, although his voice was too reedy for it to have much bite. Crowley smiled at him, wide and sharp and pleased. He put the book down gently. 

“And who’s this?” he asked, picking up the stuffed animal. “No, wait, let me guess. Lambchop. Lamby. Miss Lamb.” He held the toy delicately, one finger stroking over her woolen head. The gesture, the _affection_ sent something jolting through. 

“Mrs. Sheep,” he said softly. 

Crowley over-exaggerated his shock at guessing wrong. “Of course! Mrs. Sheep! Like a proper lady!” And to her, he said: ”Have you been keeping my angel from getting too lonely?” 

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale barely managed to say. “I know she’s not real.” The words were shaky. He might have been shaking as well, although he couldn’t be sure. He felt a little like he’d melted, just very slightly, his edges not where they usually were.

Crowley covered Mrs. Sheep’s ears, looking aghast. “Don’t say that; you’ll hurt her feelings!” Aziraphale could see the corners of his mouth were quirked. He could tell that Crowley was probably teasing him. Still, his own lip started to wobble. 

“I’m sorry,” he managed out, vision going blurry so he couldn’t see how Crowley’s reaction shifted or how he set Mrs. Sheep down in that instant. “I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry — ”

“Ngk, no, hey,” Crowley hushed. Aziraphale stumbled against his chest, sniffling against him and holding tight. “I went too fast, huh, pet? Too much for today.” He rubbed his back, slow and calm. “My mistake. I’m glad you showed me all your things. Come on, let me look at you.” He pulled back, seeing that Aziraphale had mostly stopped crying already. He wiped under his eyes, cupped his cheeks, and gave him a kiss. 

“I’m disgusting,” Aziraphale said, wriggling away.

“Er, no, not really,” Crowley said, pinking up himself. “Just a little puffy.” And for good measure, he kissed him twice more, underneath each eye. “How about a cuppa?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Hot Toddy?” 

Aziraphale considered it. “Cocoa?” 

Crowley smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “That’s just what we need. Come on.”

* * *

“Have you ever made a list of your triggers?” Crowley asked the next day, over a light brunch. He had a coffee, which he let steam in front of him while he watched Aziraphale nibble on toast and strawberry jam. 

“Dr. Tan made me write them down once. I might still have that around somewhere,” although he didn’t actually need the paper to know what was on it. 

“And Dr. Tan was your caregiver in thereplay.” 

“No,” Aziraphale chewed and swallowed. “She was my therapist. Violetta was my Big.” 

“ _Violetta_ ,” Crowley grinned. “How exotic.” 

“Oh, hush. She was from Shropshire.” Aziraphale blushed regardless.

“I bet she was,” he snorted. “And what did _Violetta_ do to get you little?” 

“Oh, um—” Aziraphale said, hesitating.

“Just the word gets you all fuzzy, doesn’t it? The reminder of it.” Crowley looked charmed, excited even. “All I have to do is bring up that you can get so little, and it happens.” 

“Sometimes.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure where to look anymore, hyper aware of Crowley’s gaze. “Violetta never had to do very much. Just… saying hello the way she did. She always had a sweet for me too, which helped. And, you know,” he felt like an utter idiot, “Pet names.” 

“What did she call you?” Crowley prompted immediately, pouncing on the information like he could swallow it all up and survive on it alone for days. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale said, which was true enough. “It’s how she said them. Like she meant them, and like I was something precious to her and nothing else besides that.” 

“Uh-huh,” Crowley finally drank some coffee, thinking about it. “So, I could still call you angel, I’d just have to say it in a certain way.”

Aziraphale squirmed in his seat. “Yes, I’d imagine.” 

“What else? Should I start ordering for you at restaurants? Buy you some kiddie clothes?” 

“When your palate is more refined, you can order for me,” Aziraphale told him coolly. Crowley laughed. “As for the clothes, I think I’d look entirely ridiculous.” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley leaned in, elbows on the table, “You’d probably look cute.” 

“Cute?” Aziraphale repeated, apprehension rising. 

“Sure,” Crowley shrugged, “But I bet I’d find you cute in whatever you wear. Just what you to be comfortable.” 

Aziraphale staunchly ignored the first part of the statement, as losing his focus was detrimental to them having a productive conversation. “I might like some other nightclothes,” he admitted. “But nothing too extreme, you understand, because I don’t want to look silly.” 

“Oh, is that a concern now?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale bristled, but it was all in good fun, so he allowed it. “What about toys?” Crowley continued. “And you mentioned coloring.” 

“I already have Mrs. Sheep,” Aziraphale started spreading jam on another piece of toast just for something to do with his hands (and because he was still hungry). 

“I’d like you to have more. I want to spoil you,” Crowley said, like that was just something he could say casually. 

“I’m not _ready_ ,” he said, voice pitching a little. 

“Say no more. We’ll talk about that bit another time,” and Crowley happily went back to his coffee.

Aziraphale waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, and Aziraphale had managed to work up his nerve, he asked, “And discipline?” 

Crowley blinked. “I thought you said you didn’t like discipline.” 

“Ah, well…” Aziraphale took a bite and chewed slowly. Maybe Crowley would just change the subject. He didn’t. “It’s just that I thought you might like it,” he tried. 

“Nah. If that’s the reason, forget it. I’d only like it if you _loved_ it. You’d have to beg me. And I’d only do it because I know you’re oh so very good.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“I’m not going to set rules over serious things, not without your say so. As far as all of your tiny mischiefs and misdeeds are concerned, I enjoy them way too much to give you any reason at all to stop. If I didn’t like that you were a snotty brat or when you overindulged, I’d never have encouraged that behavior in the first place.” 

“Oh, and that was all you, was it? I have you to thank?” 

“Yes, you’re welcome.” Crowley blew a kiss. It reordered the rest of the jam on the partly-eaten toast into the shape of a heart. 

Aziraphale scoffed and aggressively went about trying to fix his toast. “And you’re not just saying that?” he asked, careful to maintain his air of annoyance. “It wouldn’t bother you to go without?” 

“Would it bother you?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. “I might like to try. Not right now,” he rushed to add. “Just sometime.” The heart wouldn’t spread out, no matter how much he tried. 

“Aw, angel, give that here. Let me,” Crowley purred, easing the butter knife out of Aziraphale’s hand. He tsked, although Aziraphale didn’t quite have the presence of mind to realize he was just joking. His chest was tightening, like he was short of breath, and his face was heating. “It’s too hard for you, dovey. There you are,” he said, holding the toast out for him. When Aziraphale reached forward to grab it, Crowley yanked it back. “Ah-ah,” he tutted. Aziraphale blinked at him, slowly, trying to follow. “Open up.” 

Aziraphale did, eating out of Crowley’s hand in a way that by all accounts ought to have felt very awkward. But even when Crowley “accidentally” smeared a bit of the jam on Aziraphale’s upper lip and wiped it away with his thumb, Aziraphale didn’t quite feel embarrassed. He just licked Crowley’s thumb clean and then opened up for more.

* * *

“Here, angel, listen to this,” Crowley said the next day or so. He was on his phone, sprawled on the couch while Aziraphale puttered around. “ **Fireman hero saves ducklings from illegal park fire**. Apparently some tourists wanted a barbecue in Hyde Park, and they set fire on a dry bit of grass. Probably the only dry earth in all of England. There are pictures. Want to see?” 

Aziraphale did want to see, so he bustled over and looked at Crowley’s mobile. The handsome firefighter had his arms laden with baby ducks and didn’t look the least bit displeased about it. “How nice!” Aziraphale cheered. Crowley scooted so Aziraphale could sit next to him. “But their mother?” 

“Hmm, let’s see…” Crowley scrolled down, past more text and a picture of the relatively small burn site. Aziraphale wasn’t sure why they’d needed a whole fireman to take care of that, or why he was holding the ducks. “ _Mother Duck, although thoroughly concerned for her young, quaked up a merry storm on seeing them returned_. Oh, and here she is.” The beautiful lady duck had a surprisingly expressive face, showing great relief to see her children.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” Aziraphale said as gently as he could, “But I do believe this story is a fake. Perhaps its publicity for the park or the fire department. Or maybe there’s a film coming out.” 

Crowley’s mouth drew tight, face drawn in serious contemplation. “I didn’t think you’d be such a skeptic.” 

“I understand why you didn’t notice, dear boy. It’s such a very nice — or rather a very happy story! But I’m afraid it doesn’t make much sense. I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, no. don’t be sorry,” Crowley scoffed, frowning at his phone. “I guess it didn’t seem very convincing.” Aziraphale smiled, fond of Crowley beyond belief, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s downturned mouth. Crowley went back to tapping at his mobile. 

A few minutes later, Crowley said: “Angel, I’ve got a passage here from something but I can’t remember what. Could I read it to you and maybe get your help placing it?” 

Aziraphale frowned, popping his head out from the stacks to look at him. “You just have a whole passage but not where it’s from?” 

“Ngk, no, you’re right. I’ll just Google it.” 

“Crowley, what’s this all about?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Nothing, I found it. It was _Lady Windemere’s Fan_.’ Crowley looked at his phone, although with his glasses, he may as well have been looking anywhere. Azirapahle didn’t let that stop him from giving his most confused head shake and sigh. How could Crowley have not known it was _Lady Windemere_? Half of the lines started with “Lady Windemere!” He turned back to work, except now there was a decidedly antsy presence in the shop, Crowley agitatedly tapping at his phone. 

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He tramped out to look at him again.

“You made up the duck story!” Aziraphale felt very stupid to have taken so long in figuring that out. “And you had an excerpt from _Lady Windemere’s Fan_ , because you’re trying to read to me!” 

Crowley sank into his seat, looking guilty. “I was trying to go slow. Get you used to smaller pieces first. I was good with the Oscar Wilde; I was going to do voices! I’d been practicing,” he added, ears scarlet.

Aziraphale was overwhelmed, and he felt so touched that he was nearly giddy. He crossed to the sofa and sat down, glowing with excitement. “I want to hear them! I want to hear the voices! Bring the passage back. Or better yet, I’ll get the play!” 

He stood quickly, and Crowley caught his hand. He kissed Aziraphale’s palm and tugged him back down. “I’ll get it. You get comfortable, pet,” he said. 

Already flushed with delight, Aziraphale wasn’t ready for a second tidal wave of feeling to sweep over him. He blinked after Crowley, a noise trapped in his throat: timid, but still excited, still happy. He took one of the couch pillows and held it against his chest, waiting. 

Crowley came back, and he read the particular passage, which was early on in the play. When he was finished, he asked if Aziraphale might want him to go on, and Aziraphale could only nod yes. 

Before they continued, Crowley rearranged them. Aziraphale was laid against him, Crowley’s arm around his middle. His eyes scanned the words as they were read, and Crowley’s chest rumbled against his back as he spoke.

“Little darling,” Crowley said, at the end of the act. Aziraphale moved to look up at him. Slowly, Aziraphale leaned in, slotted his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck, breathing him in. Crowley’s arm tightened around him. When Aziraphale finally pulled back, he kissed Crowley, messy and open-mouthed, feeling so deep within himself that he could brush up against all his desire and know it and not find it burdensome.

When Aziraphale decided they had finished kissing, he repositioned once again so he could feel Crowley's chest as he read to him. Then he lightly tapped the page of Act II for Crowley to start.

* * *

Aziraphale checked his bowtie for the fourth time, to make sure it was still straight. It was a formal event, so he’d opted for cream silk, and his fingers kept creeping up to fuss with it. 

“You know,” Crowley reminded him, “We don’t have to go.” He’d dressed up as well. He was wearing a tie, even! A real one, not one of the strings he was so taken with. Aziraphale almost couldn’t believe it. It had been a very long time since he’d last seen Crowley wear one.

“We were _invited_.” Aziraphale peeped. “I RSVP’d!” 

“You hate him.” 

“He’s an appalling little man,” Aziraphale said. “And a mediocre author. And a terrible poet!” He cringed. “And he always introduces me as Soho’s Oddity. But I don’t _hate_ him.” 

“You are Soho’s Oddity,” Crowley said unhelpfully. 

“It’s rude of him to say! Everyone always laughs, and then I have to laugh along too.” 

“You don’t actually have to laugh along.” Crowley threw himself back on the bed, resolved to watch Aziraphale dally around getting ready. “You could tell him to shove it.” 

Aziraphale gawped. “I mostly certainly could not!” 

“I could,” Crowley offered, showing his teeth in his most markedly devilish smile. Aziraphale opened his mouth to explain _no_ , he could _not_ , when Crowley put a hand up in surrender. “All right, all right. Still don’t know why you’re going. It’s a hacky author’s 59th birthday. It’s not even one of the good years. Just wait for 60.” 

“But the food!” Aziraphale all but whined. “And I meet other people who are so wonderful.” 

“How long have you been going to these?” Crowley asked suddenly. “Hasn’t he noticed you don’t age?” 

“Of course not, that would mean he actually looked at me when we spoke and not just whatever closest mirrored surface he could find.” Crowley laughed. Aziraphale groaned at himself. “You see, Crowley! I’ve done it again! He brings out the very worst in me. You have to keep me from saying anything too horrible.” 

“No, I don’t,” Crowley snorted.

“But I’ll be so very cross with myself afterwards!” 

Crowley didn’t immediately respond, and then said: “I could promise to discipline you when we got back. Keep a tally of all the little digs and find an appropriate punishment.” Aziraphale’s breath got shorter; they’d talked about it only a little, here and there, how Aziraphale might like to be kept in line. “I even have an idea. Do you want me to tell you or have it be a surprise?” 

“I think a — a surprise would be best,” Aziraphale said. Knowing would make him think of nothing else the whole party. “And if I don’t say anything?” 

“Then I’ll discipline you for being too good and a boring dinner date.” Crowley got off the bed to stand before him. He leaned in, brushed a finger over Aziraphale’s blushing ear, cheek, neck, seemingly just to watch him squirm. 

“And what if I’m frightened when we get home?” Aziraphale asked. “What if I don’t want it anymore?” 

“Then I’ll reward you for being my perfect, honest darling.” He gave Aziraphale a soft kiss, and his hand came forward, brushing over the front of Aziraphale’s trousers, tickling the mons of Aziraphale’s cunt. Aziraphale was dizzy enough to consider calling the whole evening and having Crowley in bed right then. But he wanted to know what Crowley had planned as well. 

“Does the tally start here or at the party?” he asked.

“Err, good question,” Crowley stalled. “Let’s say at the party. After all, it’s only really fun if your friend the writer might overhear.” 

“I doubt he could even hear me over the sound of his droning on,” Aziraphale scoffed. 

“Oh,” Crowley laughed and said, “I love you,” just to watch Aziraphale go red and fluster. “Come on, dovey. Let’s get a wiggle on.” 

At the party, Azirapahle started very strong, being well-mannered and charming to their ridiculous host and his variable guests. However, after the author had referred to him as Soho’s _Oldest_ Oddity for the second time, he felt himself snap. 

“You know,” he hushed to one of the other guests once the writer’s back was turned. “He tried to get me to stock his self-published collection of poetry once.”

“Oh?” she asked mildly, concealing a perk of interest.

“ _Thine effervescent breasts / I truly like the bests / Inside me they lit a fire / As you laid in a pool of your desire_ ,” he recited.

The woman didn’t know how to respond, with delight or horror. “Oh.” 

“Evocative, isn’t it. Only a true master could possibly—” and then Aziraphale caught Crowley smirking, coming back with their drinks, and remembered himself. “Well, it was only his first attempt. We all need practice, don’t we, my dear?” 

“I suppose that’s true,” the woman agreed. 

“Here you are, angel,” Crowley said, handing him a flute of champagne. “Not too much though. You know how loose-tongued you can get.” Aziraphale flushed, heat overpowering apprehension. 

There was a little more mingling, and then everyone sat down for dinner which had to be delayed on account of a very long and pompous toast by the writer. Then there was a little more mingling, the author going on loudly about his latest TV adaptation, followed by a dessert which they promptly excused themselves after. 

“I thought that went rather swimmingly,” Aziraphale said in the car ride home, so excited he hardly noticed Crowley’s reckless driving. “Only one slip up!” 

“Really? I counted four.” 

“What?” Aziraphale gasped, thinking back. “Oh, I suppose I did pretend I hadn’t heard of his latest novel.” Crowley nodded. “And I did imply that he was lucky television producers were illiterate and wouldn’t have been able to actually read the work they were adapting.” 

“Insulting to two parties, really,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale thought about it and then shook his head. “I just can’t think of a fourth! Unless you were counting sighs and looks, but I don’t think that would be very fair of you as that wasn’t our agreement.” 

“Yes, and we’d be in the territory of _hundreds_ if I counted all those.” Crowley said, not looking at the road at all at this point. “That thing you said about his tie.” 

“Oh, but it was hideous. I was just being honest.” Although, Aziraphale supposed he might have phrased it nicer and not enjoyed the little ripple of laughter it had gotten. “All right, four.” They arrived at the bookshop. “Are you sure your flat isn’t better suited?” They’d had a conversation, briefly, about the various paraphernalia Crowley had amassed over the years: cuffs and paddles and the like. They got out of the Bentley regardless.

“Nah, we’re just gonna sit for a bit. Want you cosy.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale searched his face. “Just sitting?” Crowley grinned and opened the door for him.

“I’ll be sitting,” he said as Aziraphale walked past him. “I’ll have you kneel,” Crowley might as well have tripped him, but they managed to get inside well enough. Nerves were starting to alight in Aziraphale’s belly again. And when Crowley gently touched his elbow to lead him further into the shop, he startled. “Or you could sit on my lap, if kneeling sounds bad.” 

“No,” he croaked out. “I can kneel.” 

Crowley smiled and gave his arm a squeeze. “Go find a cushion while I get ready.” And getting ready apparently meant pouring himself a scotch and sitting in the armchair. He loosened his tie. Aziraphale found a cushion and hesitated in the middle of the room, holding it to his chest. 

“What’s wrong, dove?” 

Aziraphale didn’t want to say. He felt like he was rattling, like if he talked he would start to chatter. He hugged the pillow a little tighter. “At your feet?” he asked. Crowley grinned, and he took off his sunglasses, putting them aside. Aziraphale put the cushion down, not directly in front of Crowley but off to the side so he might lean against his legs if he was supposed to wait there long. Then he carefully dropped to his knees on top of it. Crowley, seemingly sick of his tie, finally just removed it in a fluid motion, popping two of the top buttons open, baring a stretch of long, fawny neck. 

“How long would you say your writer friend went on at that toast?” he asked. 

“Probably an hour,” Aziraphale huffed. His cheek was right by Crowley’s knee. He could press his cheek against his leg, rest against Crowley’s lap, and he didn’t think Crowley would mind. But he didn’t. He kneeled straight and steady, like he’d seen subs in paintings and films do. 

“Be serious,” Crowley said, although he didn’t sound angry. “Do you really think it was an hour?” 

Aziraphale thought about it, eyes downcast. “Maybe 15 minutes.” 

“That sounds right to me too,” Crowley nodded. He took his tie in hand and folded it over once, twice, again, and then a fourth time so it was a thick wedge. Aziraphale watched carefully, unsure what Crowley was expecting him to do with it. Would he place it under one of Aziraphale’s knees, so his hips were uncentered? Or expect Aziraphale to balance it on the back of his hands the entire time, none of the folds unraveling. Oh, but surely that would only bring him more punishment! 

“Open your mouth,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did and Crowley’s smile got warmer, softer. “A little more, pet. Gotta fit this all in,” he explained, giving the folded tie a jerk.” All of the blood in Aziraphale’s head flooded away. He closed his eyes at the rush, trying not to sway, and opened his mouth up. Crowley eased it into his mouth, and _oh_ , what a stretch it already was. “Bite down, angel.” 

There was a whining sound out of his throat the second he did, and even Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Crowley laughed though and ran a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, petting him and then slowly guiding him to rest against his knee. “You don’t have to sit up like that. I want you to be comfortable. There we go. How’s that?” Aziraphale moaned softly; it was all he could do. 

“Good,” Crowley murmured, cradling Aziraphale’s head, his hands cool and gentle. “Fifteen minutes of this.” Aziraphale made another sound, feeling a little lost, and Crowley shushed him. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’m holding you right here.” 

Aziraphale bit down harder to keep from whimpering at the words or at the way Crowley was tickling over the shell of his ear. He was already starting to drool, just a little, so he turned his hot face against Crowley’s leg, wanting to hide.

“Oh, dovey,” Crowley sighed, and kept petting him. 

When he felt the first drop of cooling saliva dribble down his chin, he shifted, his breath picking up. He couldn’t do that for 15 minutes; he’d get Crowley’s leg wet and he’d know that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to stop himself, and it was embarrassing. His exhales were becoming choked, little whines, so Crowley cradled the back of his head, holding him in place, holding him, keeping him held. 

“You’re all right, angel. You’re doing so well for me.” Aziraphale was trying to be quiet, but he felt so upset, and he couldn’t help it. “Whatever you need, lovely. We can stop. You can make as much sound as you want. Just keep breathing. Yes, you’re very good. You’re so clever and good, and you’re breathing for me.”

Crowley was holding him still, so Aziraphale didn’t nod. But he took a deep breath, through his nose, trying to calm down, because Crowley wanted him calm and had said so. 

By then, Aziraphale’s jaw was starting to ache from how viciously he’d latched on around the tie, partially to keep from drooling so much. Relaxing a little had a saliva pooling, but Crowley was stroking his cheek, and Aziraphale didn’t want his jaw to be too tight for Crowley to pet. So, he drooled down his chin, down Crowley’s trouser leg, down to his own throat. 

And soon, even with his jaw relaxed, it started to ache again. The discomfort throbbed all through him, to his knees and his ankles and his pussy. Every breath twinged his jaw, made him shake up and down. And Crowley hummed every now and then, but Aziraphale couldn’t only pick up a few words: pet, darling, love, angel. Aziraphale, whatever he was, melted, dissolved, became the sensation of Crowley’s hand on his face, his damp knee against his cheek, his low voice. He felt cared for. He felt precious, and like that was all he was. 

He’d started crying, at some point. Slow, fat tears that leaked without warning and with no way to stop them. And, even that trembling, the sniffling, didn’t disturb Crowley. He kept stroking him and sometimes sipping at his scotch. Aziraphale hadn’t thought it would be like this: calm and devastating and _warm_. 

“There you are,” Crowley finally said, easing Aziraphale off the cushion and onto his lap. He took the tie from Aziraphale’s mouth and gently wiped away the spit and tears. “You did so well,” he said as Aziraphale trembled, still teary, hiccuping a little. Crowley cradled him close. “I love you so much, my good dove. That’s all right. You can cry. It’s okay.” 

Aziraphale, unable to even think about speaking, took the words to heart and sobbed.

When he was all cried out, they sat quietly for another few minutes while Aziraphale kept tremoring. Crowley had gotten a blanket from somewhere and wrapped it around them, although Aziraphale didn’t remember exactly when that had happened.

“How was that?” Crowley hushed, once Aziraphale seemed settled. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Good, I think.” Aziraphale yawned, suddenly exhausted in a way he shouldn’t have been. “I need to think about it a little more.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said. “But, uh, when you’re ready, maybe think about it with me. So next time its better for you.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale creaked. He thought he might cry again. “It was perfect for me. It was _perfect_.”

Crowley grinned, eyes bright. “Perfect,” he repeated, and he looked pleased with himself so Aziraphale just had to kiss him and then kiss him again and then drag him to their bed.

* * *

“Do you remember?” Aziraphale asked while they were in bed, naked, Crowley letting him idly play with his chest hair. “The time we saw a caregiver and little in public, at the park?” 

“Err,” Crowley said, coughing, “A long time ago?” 

“Yes, decades ago.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley tried to say casually, “I remember, I guess.” 

“What did you think about them?” Aziraphale pushed up so he could see his face. “Did they embarrass you?” 

“Ahh.” Crowley swallowed hard. “Not exactly, no. Felt sorta, you know. Jealous.” 

“Jealous.”

“Why? Were you embarrassed?” 

“Terribly. Although I suppose, there was a bit at play there. Emotionally, I mean. Maybe I was jealous too. I feel a little jealous now; that they knew and were able to be open about it, even if I don’t think the venue was appropriate.” He settled back down. “But things happen at the pace they do for a reason.”

Crowley snorted, although it was mostly good-natured. “Sure, angel. When the Almighty created the universe and decided that desire would exist in it, She said ‘But that Aziraphale’s not allowed to have any of it. He’s gotta be alone for 6000 years.” 

Aziraphale looked at him sharply. “I wasn’t alone for 6000 years,” he said. “I was sometimes lonely, but I wasn’t alone. I had a friend. Didn’t I?”

“Oh,” Crowley almost purred, snaking around him, coiling him up, holding him tight. “Of course, my sweet dove, my pet.” He kissed Aziraphale’s soft cheek. He kissed his chin. He kissed his throat. “My good angel.” 

The sensation of his heart clenching and his stomach dropping used to make Aziraphale want to cry and hide away. Now, it wasn’t so scary. Wordless, he pulled Crowley back up so he could lick the inside of his mouth, shy and playful all at once. He spread his thighs for Crowley to settle between.

“Is that what you want, lovely?” Crowley hummed. 

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale nodded, because that was all he wanted to say. 

Crowley brought his right hand between them, stroking his cock and then rubbing Aziraphale’s already thoroughly-loved cunt. “Are you sure?” His eyes searched his face, hand still massaging his clit. “You’re not sore?” He was a little, but Aziraphale shook his head. “Can I kiss it first?” he asked, probably just to make Aziraphale blush and get even more light-headed. “Here, let me kiss it. Say yes, angel.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed and then, barely able to keep from smiling: “Angel.” 

Crowley stilled and then suddenly broke into laughter, practically exalted with delight. “You absolute menace,” he said, giving his pink nipple a sharp pinch. “You think you’re so funny.” Aziraphale grinned, although he did it while soothing his poor tit with his fingertips. “Oh, I can’t get enough of you,” Crowley said, calm for a single second, just enough time to press a light kiss over his heart. “We’ll see how funny you are after,” he said.

And before Aziraphale had processed that, Crowley ducked under the covers, pushing Aziraphale’s thighs up and apart. At the first touch of his lips, Aziraphale squealed and didn’t even think to cover his mouth with his hand until the second touch, and the sound—and the feel!—of Crowley humming in amusement. Panting, overwhelmed, Aziraphale squirmed against him. And Crowley, somehow, held him steady and devoured him. 

Aziraphale did know how much time had passed, and he'd come at least once. And when Crowley finally stopped, he was wet and aching and needy. The moment he saw Crowley’s face, sharp and slick, he sobbed with relief, his hands shaking as he threw his arms around his shoulders, hugging him firmly to his chest. 

“Oh, dove,” was all Crowley said, and when Aziraphale kept wriggling against him stretching his trembling thighs apart, he put his hands on Aziraphale’s wide, plush hips to keep him still. “All right, all right,” he hushed. He slid in, because it was a slide, because Aziraphale had become so wet. His breath hot against Aziraphale’s ear, the scent of him, of his fire, filling up all of Aziraphale’s senses. It was almost too much. 

(Aziraphale had never thought that play would be like this: actual playing. But he should have known with Crowley.)

It was the closest, sweetest, most tender fuck Aziraphale had ever had in his entire existence, excluding all of the times he’d had with Crowley before it. He sought out Crowley’s mouth, demanding kisses and receiving them without hesitation. It was just what he wanted: to come while panting into Crowley’s mouth, Crowley’s tongue beside his own. Crowley seemed more than glad to come that way too. 

“Let’s sleep now,” Crowley said as they were coming down, as the bed cleaned itself and Aziraphale shivered, fingering his own, wet pussy between them. Aziraphale, who had found he really did enjoy sleep when he did it with Crowley, nodded. “In my arms,” Crowley murmured, resettling them, back to front, his own hand dipping over Aziraphale’s hip to idly curl around his plump, wandering fingers. “Just like this.” 

Aziraphale pushed his hips back, wriggled against him, trying to get as close as possible. He then flipped around, wanting to face Crowley. “I’m sorry I made fun of you earlier.” 

“When did you do that?” Crowley’s eyes were closed, but one peeked open. 

“When I said yes,” he said, quiet. “You weren’t really bothered, right?” 

“No, I wasn’t bothered.” Crowley looked at him fully, mouth tugging downward. “Did I seem mad?” 

“No,” Aziraphale sighed, closing his eyes. “I wanted to make certain. I thought of it just now, and I got worried.” He tucked his arms against his chest. Crowley stroked over his shoulders. 

“Was I too much? Should I have said something else?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “It was good. You can say things like that. But I’ll want to make certain afterwards that I didn’t really upset you. Is that all right?” 

“Of course, angel.” Crowley said, softly, like it was obvious, like he wanted nothing more than to always be reassuring Aziraphale. Aziraphale hoped that one day he wouldn’t need it. But maybe it didn’t matter.

It was so very simple to fall asleep when held. His bed smelled like smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> it took me forever to write this and it ended up being weirdly personal and stuff so i would love it if you guys would comment. either way tho, thanks for making it to the end. i wish you happiness and health! peace and blessings!
> 
> ([Follow me on my professional fanfiction twitter](https://twitter.com/gigglesnortPro) or [just come kick it with me on my tumbly](https://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com))


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